The Darkest Hour
by Heidi Ahlmen
Summary: Lara always thought that the skeletons rattling in her closet would stay there until she'd find the energy and the right moment to sort them out. Now time has run out and a change must come whether she is ready for it or not. Winner of the The 2003 Croft
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. Tomb Raider: The Darkest Hour 

By Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)

Part IThe Change 

Lara Croft paused in front of a west-side window on her way to the library. It was late September and Autumn was right on schedule, which meant extra work for her butler Winston. He had to coordinate the chaos of season gardeners preparing the premises for Winter. Thus the garden was unusually crowded, and occasional creeking sounds came from the labyrinth, where dead and rotting branches were being cut down.

Lara herself was glad that the manor was still big enough to enable her to keep out of everyone's way and disappear into the halls. She was in the midst of a professional dryspell – she hadn't been offered a single commission for a whole quarter of a year. Her official employer, the British Museum, did not have a penny in their budget for new acquisitions after the major renovating work that had been done in the Great Hall. Usually, if no outside work oppotunities were brought to her attention Lara managed to dig out a clue or trail of some sorts, which often lead to a trip someplace. But this time – nothing. She'd tried continuing her writings, but when there's nothing new to write about a writer's block seems quite inevitable.

There was the annual financier's dinner due the following day, of course, but that brought no joy to Lara. Usually she'd taken up any odd job to avoid the the boredom.

So she stalked the halls of the house, curled up in armchairs in order to catch up on the latest magazines, and trained in the gym.

Recently not even training had gave her the satisfaction it used to. She was still as fit as ever in general, but a few aches and pains gathered on the road raised their ugly head more and more.

She'd paused in front of the mirror a few days prior and been literally schocked. Her torso resembled a map of a country in civil war – faded old scars, reddish newer ones, traces of stitched wounds, violet bruising on her shoulder blade where a dislocated shoulder had wreaked havoc. Healed burn marks and laceration from a snake bite adorned her thigh.

Her face and arms had been spared for the most, but the sight that greeted her in the mirror; the souvenirs from a decade of tomb raiding, made her wonder if this was what her body existed for – a weapon and means of dragging her brain around.

In Lara's opinion it certainly did not look like something anyone would willingly wish to touch. _When and if I meet a man, I'll have to remember to keep the lights out_, she had thought dryly, and went to find a towel.

She left the window and walked into the library, pausing on the stairs to pick up a few books she'd discarded there. She returned them to their rightful places, and circled around the room.

_Face it, girl, you're bored out of your skull._

The strangest thing was that she'd been bored before, but that had only made her anxious, energetic. This time it only left her dull, feeling sort of faded. She had to get out of the house.

Lara wracked her brain for things to do, not wanting to promenade all the way to her study to check her calender. Suddenly it occurred to her that she hadn't really considered what to wear for the dinner and if she did wish to go shopping Saturday on Oxford Street would be annoyingly busy. Maybe she ought to make use of her idle Friday by taking the bike out and spending a few hours browsing for a dress.

_Beats sulking around, if nothing more._

Just as she was about to grab her helmet and jog downstairs to inform Winston where she was headed the phone rang. Cursing as she almost tripped on her bag, she answered.

"Hello dear," cheered the familiar voice of her Aunt Gillian, a favourite relative from her mother's side. She was a pleasant, soft but determined woman in her mid-sixties. One of the handful of people who had refused to keep in line with Lara's parents' decision of disowning her.

Lara smiled. "Gillian. Glad to hear from you. How are things?"

"Lovely. They finally won the fight over the bridge."

Gillian Havers lived in a small town right in the middle of the Cornwall peninsula where the nature was untamed but lush. A retired gardener, she'd been a strong force in opposing the village counsel's decision to bulldoze a medieval stone bridge in favour of a hideous new concrete construction. She'd filled Lara in on the dispute, which she'd followed with appropriate amusement. Lara was up for saving any historical site, and had even donated a few hundred pounds for the conservation work.

"Brilliant! Means I'm getting my pennies worth. I know I promised to visit and I will, but there's been a lot happening as you probably know."

A vast understatement. Gillian had been one of the people who'd thought they'd seen a dead woman walking when Lara'd returned from Egypt as she had naturally been informed of her supposed demise.

"I'm afraid this is not what you'd think of as a social call," Gillian changed the subject, "I need some help. Or more accurately, the village Floral Society does."

"I didn't know you were a member?" Lara offered. It did not sound very intriguing, but she was game in order to end this dry spell. Even if it meant planting petunias. Or maybe she would not go _that_ far.

"I'm not, but most of the societé here are, old hags who've got enough spare time to bicker over bushes, but most of them sit in the church council as well, as it's thanks to them that I've kept my job in the churchyard."

Not much of a churchgoer, Gillian had been balancing on a tightrope with the decidedly Anglican majority of senior villagers, and she'd been forced to fight for her position as head gardener of the local church to earn some extra money as her pension was not very big. Lara'd offered to aid her financially, but had not really expected Gillian to accept. Her assumption had been correct.

"I see. What sort of help would they require?"

"They've found a mention of a rare rose variety which they'd love to get their hands on. They do know you're a relative of mine, and your help would be much appreciated."

Gillian had made it sound like another mascot job. "I'm not much of a botanist, I'm afraid."

Gillian laughed. "I know. They've found the mention from a historical text, that's why you could probably make something of it. I don't know much more, tomorrow I'll be wiser."

"I could come over tomorrow," Lara decided to offer. She could test the tuning of the bike better on quiet country roads than in London afternoon traffic. "I have to be in London at eight p.m. but there should be plenty of time."

"But Lara – it's a three-hour drive from there."

"Not really. One forty-five.

"But it should take at least two and a half even if you use the motorways and traffic is quieter than usual –"

"Believe me," Lara smiled, "It's a one-forty-five." They ended the call, and Lara put her helmet back in the closet. Surely she could use one of her old frocks instead of getting a new dress again?

Satisfied with her decision, she changed into a pair of jeans and a cardigan, and left for the attic.

_Linne's book must be somewhere in that crate on the left..._


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

The following morning Lara set out early, enjoying the crisp air as she made use of every detour familiar to her in order to reach Cornwall by ten a.m.

Her Aunt's house stood at the end of a quiet country road off the village of Eaton-upon-Thyne, where the church and the only little grocery store in the area were located. The landscape was as though ripped right off a postcard – the nature was visibly more luxuriant than in the London area were heavy pollution had only left the most stubborn plants standing.

The lonely road was so seldom trafficked that Lara did not have to bother ringing the doorbell – Gillian had heard her coming and was waiting in the yard with a teapot in her hand.

The greeted with a hug and sat down in the garden for tea.

Gillian's garden was small and wild, with thorny bushes lining the sides and at least a dozen varieties of roses climbing up the south wall. Some had bloomed over, but a great many were still battling the winds with their petals.

Suddenly something occurred to Lara. "Where's Churchill?"

Gillian smiled. "Martin took him to the Isle. About time he got out a little."

Lara smiled politely. Churchill was his Aunt's dog, a feisty little corgi who'd acquired a taste for Lara's calves the moment they'd met. She tried to hide her delight at the fact that the little critter was away. "How is Martin?" she asked, and let her gaze wander to the roses again.

Martin Ives, Gillian's neighbour was of the same age than Lara's Aunt, and they were great friends. Sometimes Gillian spoke of him in a way that hinted of more, and Lara was eager to tease her on the subject. "I'm too old for that sort of thing," was Gillian's usual reply, which made Lara slightly sad. _I wonder if I'm already getting too old myself,_ she wondered every time she heard her Aunt's belittling comment.

"So, my dear, what have you been up to?" Gillian asked, and Lara returned her gaze back to her Aunt, almost unable to tear her eyes away from a stunningly beautiful, almost violet rose.

"Not much after Egypt," Lara replied, and noticed her Aunt's expression shift at the mention. She felt apologetic for the whole ordeal. Von Croy had obviously been quite eager to announce the news of her assumed death. "Tell you the truth, I haven't been offered much work lately," she sighed. She'd checked with a couple of other freelancers, and it seemed it wasn't just her problem. "Sometimes it seems as though this globe's been emptied of all treasure. Even the Jordanian trail I was on lead to nowhere. I told you about it, right?"

Gillian nodded. She'd seldom seen Lara so frustrated as when she'd found a mention in an old text about a military expedition of Marc Anthony's to try to employ the Nabataeans against his rivals. His troops had carried with them a valuable burden of gold and jewellery to aid in getting the ancient Jordanians to sympathize with their quest. Most of them had been scavenged during the ongoing wars between the former Roman members of the triumvirate of Octavian, Marc Anthony and Lepidus, but some of them were likely to have been donated by Cleopatra, Anthony's famous lover. They would've been a magnificent find. But Lara had not managed to find enough information on the subject to gain a permission from the Jordanian authorities to take a look around Petra, the ancient city of the Nabataeans, where the reasure was most likely hidden.

She could've tried posing as a tourist, but she had too high a profile in the antiquities circuit to get into the country unnoticed. And she did not have as many contacts in the Jordanian ministry of antiquities as she had into the Egyptian one, for instance.

"I thought we might take the cups inside, then walk into town. They'll be expecting us at eleven in the parish meeting hall."

Lara wiped a droplet of tea from her lips, and put down the cup. "Sounds good to me. We'll take the bridge trail?"

Gillian smiled and buttoned up her coat. "Of course," she replied, glad that Lara had remembered.

The parish hall was a small, octagonal building just southward of the small stone church and its overcrowded churchyard. According to Gillian, the yard couldn't be expanded because of the ancient stone wall that circled it was protected by the historical sites act. The parish did own a plot of land outside the village which was due to be used as a new cemetary, but noone wanted to be buried here. All wished for a plot in the old yard.

"And who could blame them?" Gillian asked as they walked into the banquet room, "The new plot faces the old mill, which is lovely, but there are no roses there."

Lara wholeheartedly agreed. She liked churchyards in general, if one didn't count in the one where her mother's grave lay, but the one in Eaton-upon-Thyne was the most wonderful she'd seen. Usually English cemeteries were overgrown with ivy but here roses had taken its place. Most of them were of the usual pale pink wild variety, but families of the deceased had almost a tradition of planting a different variety of rose on each grave.

_No wonder they're so interested in this mystery variety they've come across,_ Lara mused to herself as she was introduced to a motley group of pension-aged ladies that the Floral society mostly consisted of. The chairwoman, Patricia Mildrew, almost forgot to let go of Lara's hand after giving it a thorough shake with her paper-thinly skinned, tanned hand that had obviously seen a lot of gardens and late-Autumn sunlight.

"Please, Lara, do sit down," she pleaded, and Lara complied.

She decided it was time for questions before the ladies flooded her over with tea and chitchat. "Thank you for the invitation. Gillian tells me you're trying to locate something and need my help."

"Oh yes," Mrs. Mildrew replied matter-of-factly, "Here, dear, take a look yourself." She passed Lara an old book. She glanced at the cover before opening the marked page.

The book was not printed, but tied together in a fashion that told either of the sixteenth of seventeenth century. It was in Latin, which Lara could read fluently and easily, but on the first page there was an inscription written with shaky handwriting. The whole book had been copied by hand, of course, but the inscription was not a result of laborous and skilled copying. It was like an owner's title or a dedication. "Psallat scholarum concio" it read, followed by "John Wellesley" or "Welsley". Lara couldn't tell as the ink had faded. The text itself meant "And the day dawns after the night".

Before concentrating on the marked pages Lara had to ask the obvious. "Where did you get this?"

This time it wasn't Mrs Mildrew who replied rather than an old, thin man who'd introduced himself as the vicar. "A monastery stood on this site for nearly five hundred years before it burned down in the war of the roses."

_How appropriate,_ Lara thought, amused. She nodded, urging the vicar to continue.

"This was found in the ruins forty years ago when the church was being restored and this hall built. It's been lying around in the storage room for a long while. A recent inventory brought this book to my attention, and as I began reading it I noticed these pages and as a curiosity showed it to Mabel here." He nodded at another elderly woman.

Lara began reading the marked pages, trying to treat the book as carefully as possible.

It was a prayer book, which was not very unusual. In late medieval times only religious texts were considered worthy enough to be copied in the centres of civilization of those times – convents and monasteries. Prayer books were among those, and as most monks and nuns were in possession of such books, they were considered high society. Books were rare and expensive in those days.

On page seventy-four, the first of the marked ones was a short prayer to Virgin Mary. Translated, the third verse meant "and in your garden shall grow the _rosa mystica". _Lara dared not translate the term into "mystical rose". It was a metaphor she had not come across before. It was like it was an euphemism, but who knew for certain? Still, she ought to voice her suspicion.

"The _rosa mystica._ I haven't heard of it before. Though, I can't claim to be very well schooled in theology. But I do know who I could ask about this. I have to say that it could just be a religious term, at least it sounds like one."

"That's what we reasoned, too, at first. But turn the page," Mrs Mildrew pleaded.

Lara did so and began reading the next prayer. It did not withhold a mention of any sort of roses, but to Lara's astonishment a picture adorned the empty space under the text - a delicate drawing of a rose. The caption read _rosa mystica._ The colour of the rose was deep blood-red.

Lara gazed up from the book. "This does seem to make it more likely that there is, or maybe was, such a rose. But finding this in reality might not be possible. Plants become exist all the time. A century ago even the common dandelion was on the verge of disappearing from England," she quoted the books she'd been reading the previous evening to gain some insight into the subject.

Mrs Mildrew ignored her protest. "We can not pay you much, but if you could possibly accept this little request of ours to try and track down this rose. The annual Rose Society of England's annual fair will be held here next year, and this would truly be something interesting as a presentation."

_Am I really taking up a job chasing after a plant?_ Lara wondered to herself. If something more pressing came up, this would certainly be low on her priorities list. But surely she could contact some old colleagues and ask a few questions.

"Money's not a problem. I'm not particularly busy at the moment so this could fit right into my schedule. I can't guarantee any results, but..."

The ladies seemed content with this. They drank up their tea, and after touring the church premises with Mrs Mildrew, her Aunt and the vicar, Lara excused herself and left for home. She did have the godawful dinner to attend.

The annual financier's dinner was one of the only things in the world that could make Lara's blood boil in what seemed to her a rather naive way. She just couldn't stand those people – business tycoons and members of parliament who only had money and no regard for archaeology. A name on the museum's funder wall was their prize, a social ticket to the "cultural circles". As polite and well-bred as Lara knew herself to be when the situation called, she knew that one of these days her curvature of annoyance towards these people would reach the top of the chart with serious consequences.

It was these people who sat in councils, committees and boards that decided to bulldoze old bridges from the way of progress, meaning motorways and Sainsburys' supermarkets. Lara had taken on paid commissions from such people, but only from those who knew what they were after. A man with a wallet thicker than their waist but who could not tell the difference between a sarcophagus and a wine barrell did not become her customers under any circumstances.

There were colleagues, of course, who took up any job. She'd even dated some of them. Many times it had been the work ethics that had dug the deepest gorges in the relationships.

She had a hard time deciding between a red and a black dress, but eventually she decided she was in favour of the the black one. She wished to be as inconspicous as possible, as her presence usually gathered more than enough attention on its own without an attention-gathering garment. She wondered who the mostly male board of funders leered on when she wasn't there – perhaps each other? _Now there's a thought_, Lara remarked to herself, amused. Usually museum director Garrett Graham provided a good chaperone for her – the two of them had always gotten along great, but Garrett, who was already approaching his sixties, had suffered a stroke months earlier, and had had to leave his post as head of the museum.

It had been a blow to Lara. Garrett had understood the way she wanted to work, had helped her out both unofficially and officially and even saved her neck a few times with his connections. The new director, Arthur what-was-his-name-again, had not made any radical changes, but Lara had not met him yet and was suspicious. She would meet him that night, of course. It was one of the reasons that had persuaded her to agree to show up.

Lara was positively suprised when the phone rang sometime after four p.m., and the caller introduced himself as the new director.

"Lady Croft, it's Arthur Evers, how do you do."

"Speak of the devil! I've been looking forward to hearing from you. I'm just wonderful, thank you. And you?"

"Looking forward to meeting you, of course," a polite voice said from the other end, "I've heard a great deal about you."

"All rotten lies, I'm sure," Lara smiled.

"I'm certain you'll right any wrong ideas I might have. I was wondering if we could meet at my office before the banquet? I heard that a certain Roman military expedition into Jordania has piqued your interest in the past."

The Nabataean affair! Lara's heart leaped. She certainly could begin to like this man. "It still does. Would at seven be a suitable time?"

"Absolutely, Lady Croft."

"You'd better change that to Lara if you want co-operation."

"I knew you were close to Garrett," he suddenly remarked.

Lara did not reply. She hadn't visited him in the hospital since the first week he'd gotten in. She'd been quite rattled by the visit. He hadn't even recognized her.

Evers cleared his throat. "I can assure you, I won't be making any changes concerning your work. I know you have certain guidelines you like to stick by, and that is absolutely commendable."

Lara began to feel slightly irked by his complimentary. "What are you aiming at if I may ask?"

"Just to reassure you that on my behalf we have a great chance of getting along."

_Not if you keep it that slick we won't. _"I'll see you at seven," Lara commented dryly, and said her farewell.

At seven o'clock sharp, Lara adjusted her earrings – a pair of dangly combinations of zirkonia and silver which felt strange as she did not often wear jewellery. Then she used her magnetocard to enter the administrative wing of the museum. It was empty save for the sound of typing coming from the room Lara had learned to think of as Garrett's office. She walked straight in.

"Evening," she commented, secretly delighted at the fact that she'd obviously startled him.

Arthur Evers was somewhere in his fifties, a quite thin man with glasses and light brownish hair which had carefully been combed into shape. She wore quite suffered-looking pants and a white dress shirt. Obviously not what he was planning on wearing at the banquet, as there was a well-tailored black suit hanging from the doorjamb.

"Lady Croft, welcome. Do take a seat." They shook hands.

_I did say it was Lara, but at the moment I do not mind the lady part._ Lara dropped down in an armchair. Evers joined her, taking a seat in the accompanying armchair. "Quite a wind outside," he offered.

Lara nodded and adjusted her dress, a simple black evening gown with one long sleeve and the other side completely sleeveless. "Feels as though even snow could be expected."

"Hopefully not," Arthur replied absently and passed Lara a ready-poured glass of scotch without asking her if she'd like one. There was an uncomfortable silence which Lara decided to break.

She put her glass aside. "I see you've made yourself at home here," she said and added a smile for effect but to her the comment still sounded too much like an accusation.

"Well, I'm not planning on leaving very soon," he replied quietly.

"So, what can I do for you? If you have anything on the Nabataeans I'm sure we could cook up a deal if I decide to follow the trail, Mr Evers."

"It's Arthur."

_Not quite yet it isn't, _Lara thought tiredly, wishing the man could get to the point.

"I attended a conference in Marseille last week, and an old friend of mine who's been leading a dig in the Amman area discovered the ruins of a pillared hall. The engravings were quite astonishing, obviously depicting Anthony's little trip to the country. The inscriptions even mention his name and some constructions which are probably located at Petra. Quite a few clues to start with." Evers passed her a wad of photocopies. Lara stuck them in her bag. They had no time to properly inspect them, and she preferred to do it on her own in the privacy of her library. "Thank you. I'll keep you posted on what I find."

She tried to conceal how much this would help her. Maybe this would even mean purchasing a plane ticket to Amman. She'd been to Jordania before but only during brief stops at the airport or quick shopping rounds for expeditions elsewhere in the Middle East. She was looking forward to touring the country more thoroughly - especially the magnificent-sounding Petra. Maybe she'd even have time to stop by at Jerash, another ancient city.

But she wasn't supposed to be planning anything just yet. She felt a pang of guilt as she remembered her botanical task, but that just would have to come in second.

"Glad to be of assistance. Now, would you possibly allow me to escort you to the banquet? I shall have to change into a more proper attire, of course."

_He speaks even more formally than dear old daddy,_ Lara sighed to herself, and pushed her chin up. "I'll be in the hallway."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

Lara had to admit the Great Hall looked spectacular. The aim of the construction project had been to make the structure of the museum more logical, and to expand the library area which was used more and more by visitors. The trend in museum organization was slowly crawling from "look and don't touch" to a full hands-on-approach. Lara was glad of this. If it meant that interest towards archaeology was rising it also meant more funding.

She followed Evers up the entrance hall stairs. The banquet had been arranged in one of the conference halls. Approximately a hundred and fifty people were already gathered. Some were trying to find their placement card on the tables, but most had crowded the corridor and were chatting the hours away.

Evers lead Lara in the midst of a group who Lara recognized as the main funders. After a moment of awkwardness for Lara as her hands were kissed by at least half a dozen business tycoons, the conversation turned to some recent exhibitions.

"I won't be supportive of paying large sums for individual discoveries. Surely we could find some more loan deals from China? That gilded dragons thing was a success, I heard," one man in a armani suit declared, the cigar in his fingers bouncing up and down as he pointed at a framed exhibition poster on the wall.

Lara rolled her eyes. What the man had meant were package deals of loaning artefacts from other museums, usually from third-world countries who did not dare to ask for approprite sums but sold cheap. In Lara's opinion this sort of conduct drew attention away from the rightful owners of these artefacts to the richer museums in the western world.

"Still, they're a season thing, and many still come here to see the permanent collections," remarked a woman clad in a green blazer suit made of expensive-looking silk. Lara recognized her as the head of the Asian department. Lara was glad she didn't have to be the one to disagree for a change. "And the cost if an artefact is damaged could be destructive for our budget."

A female financier in a red velvet ensemble glared at her. "But the extra visitors these touring exhibitions gather surely will make up for that. And you're all professionals, right? You won't be damaging anything if your careers are at stake."

To Lara that sounded like a threat, but she did not speak up until a man who'd obviously already have a few shots of whisky addressed her. "Well, what does Miss Croft here think, then? Or maybe we won't have to ask, as she's the one whose name keeps popping up in the biggest bills for single artefacts acquired."

"Plane tickets and hotel rooms do not come cheap," Lara commented, not bothering to address him by name.

This inspired a laugh from the group. "And be it known that the British Museum's heroine _always_ travels first class," a rake-thin man threw in, which accelerated their amusement. Lara tried not to turn red. Arthur had scuttled off somewhere.

_So much for that smokescreen._

It wasn't true, far from it, that she always chose first class. If she did, she paid for it herself. The main moneyhole in her hunts were the equipment. She could not afford to spare in the price of weaponry or ropes, for instance. Not if she didn't wish to pay with her life. But whatever she could say would not change their opinion. She simply smiled, showing her teeth in a way she hoped would seem ever so slightly intimidating.

Lara retreated to the bar before finding her designated seat in the table. She swallowed down a whisky on the rocks and silently cursed the fact that she had left Arthur's whisky undrank. Some alcohol in the blood would surely have taken the edge off her irritation.

The dinner itself was uneventful. A local orchestra provided the background noise – the brasses were playing slightly too loud for Lara's taste. She did enjoy the food – sea bass in tangerine sauce accompanied by a selection of pleasantly fruity wines. Towards dessert she opted for mineral water. To her amusement not many others did so, and the volume of exhilarated laughter rose steadily in correlation with the number of empty wine bottles. All in all the atmosphere was pleasant, but Lara did not have much company. She had been placed in the same table as Arthur but in general the table was filled with a group of foreign investors. After dazzling them with her smalltalk in French she soon got tired of them.

As coffee was being poured, began the speeches. First Arthur spoke of his plans for the next year – much was familiar to Lara as most of them had been adopted straight from Garrett's intentions. Nothing earth-shattering as the tight budget did not allow any radical changes. After this a guest speaker from Lara's old place of schooling, Chicago University, gave a talk on archaeology's role in rescuing historical sites threatened by acid rainfall. After this free discussion was announced. Half an hour later the head of the board of financiers rose onto the podium.

"First of all, I would like to thank our new director for his visioned approach. However, it is my wonderful duty to inform you all of a new contruction project planned for next year. As you all know, the restaurant area has suffered from the raised number of visitors during the summer season. Thus we are announcing the expansion of the restaurant wing. Some of the exhibitions on the third floor will have to be moved to the basement to await for review, but I assure you, those will only include exhibitions that gathered the least visitors, for instance, the first three of the Roxie Walker galleries."

Lara nearly choked on her glass of water. _What! They want to close down half of the museum's flagship, the Egyptian galleries?_ She'd participated in the keeping and expanding of the galleries quite a great deal. It wasn't really a pet project, but if the galleries were diminished, the museum would lose one of their best-known parts. True, they had attracted less and less visitors each year due to the fact that not much new had been discovered in Egypt in recent days, but still!

Lara stood up and walked to the other end of the banquet table to face Evers. "Did you know about this?" she inquired, her tone stern. He nodded, apologetically. She'd been lied to. This did affect her work – she'd been a major contributor to the galleries and if they were run down, her expertise would not be even as half as valuable as it used to.

This probably also meant the laying off of more than just a few people in the Egyptian Antiquities department.

Lara's own namely title was a curator of the Egyptian Antiquities. Perhaps they planned to change that as well.

Unacceptable.

She climbed on the podium and decided to make use of the free discussion annoucement. The head of the board passed her the microphone without a word. "Thank you. I would loveto say I'm representing the Department of the Egyptian Antiquities, but this is more of a personal matter, I'm afraid. I would like to know why it is so that you would jeopardize the museum rather than the fact that some tourists might not get an omelette when they wish to?"

The man shrugged. "We're a service to the public, Miss Croft. Not providing enough of these facilities would mean unacceptably bad service."

Something snapped in Lara's mind. She did not need this, and she could not battle this on her own. If Arthur Evers was as teethless and politically correct as it seemed, she would find no backup in his direction.

"Yes, we do serve the public. But we also serve history. The worst thing you can do for these artefacts is to stuff them into the basement where noone can appreciate them. Is that service to the public, I wonder?" she commented sharply.

"But surely, Miss Croft, you would not wish to see a diminishing in visitor numbers because the British Museum was claimed to be old-fashioned in its service policy?"

Lara'd had enough. It was the same every year. It had been a wise decision on her behalf to keep out of this banquet, but this time she would speak up. Perhaps for the last time.

"What I _would_ actuallylike to see is _archaeologists_ in charge of this museum, not businessmen whose intimate knowledge of archaeology could be written down on single a note from the thick wads they buy their seats with."

"Lara – don't you think you're being unreasonable –" Evers tried, standing up, but a well-built man in an expensive suit interrupted.

"No, no, Arthur please, by all means, let her speak. It's always nice to hear a bit of witty banter," he commented, seemingly amused. This aroused a snicker from the rest of the group.

Lara tried not to turn red. "I've grown weary with witty banter. Which is why you will be receiving my resignation in the mail in a matter of days."

Evers stood up looking like he'd suddenly realized nothing was under his control. "Lara – that might not be a good idea, really –"

Lara turned sharply to face him, a snarling smile no longer keeping itself at bay. No backing out 

now. "You're absolutely right, dear. That is why I shall _fax_ it. Tomorrow." With all eyes fixed on her, she rose slowly, feeling triumphant but suddenly very tired. "Do enjoy your evening and this marvelous sherry." She grabbed Evers' glass and gulped down the last drops of beverage as the man watched in unapproving astonishment.

Then she calmly walked to the double doors, nodded at the valet who opened them for her, and let out a weary breath as she trailed down the main staircase.

She reached home an hour later. With the streets empty, she dared a few short passages of speeding, not for the usual rush that came with it, but because the concept of a warm bed seemed unusually inviting. Even the strange innuendo that'd been playing in her mind had given space to exhaustion.

After leaving her Aston in the garage, Lara decided to go in via the front doors instead of the kitchen one. It wasn't particularly cold outside, just the usual chill of British autumn, but she hoped the semicrisp air would give her enough of a shake to energize her to drag herself upstairs to bed.

She wondered what had gotten into her. Speaking up had felt perfectly reasonable, but it wasn't exactly the first time they'd done something stupid like this.

On the whole, Lara felt strange, as though something was about to happen. Something different, like clouds gathering in the horizon. Something was certainly about to change. Whether in herself or in her life, she did not know. Maybe she just had to ride the flow. Not much else she could do, now that she truly had cut off all professional ties.

To her surprise, the doors were not locked and the alarm system would not accept her codes for the lights were green, indicating that the locks were open. She stepped in quietly, hoping not to wake Winston. She'd chide him gently in the morning about forgetting to turn on the alarms.

The hall lights were still on but dimmed. As Lara walked in and kicked off her shoes onto the hallway carpet a movement in her rear view alarmed her. She spun around, ready to snap the stud of her ankle holster, but relaxed as she spotted Winston retreating into the hall from the fireplace-lit trophy room.

Lara dropped the car keys into her coat pocket. "What on earth are you doing up at this ghastly hour?"

There was something wrong. Winston wrung his hands and looked down briefly. Lara accepted his silent offer to take her coat. Dim lights cast moving shadows as the thick woolly bundle was passed.

"It was unnecessary for you to wait up. I'm a big girl, I don't keep curfews," Lara joked mildly, testing his expression which did not change.

The ever-sensitive Winston only nodded, aware that Lara had sensed the gravity of the situation.

"Lady Lara, I took the liberty of waiting because a phone call was received while you were gone. How was the dinner? Shall I make some tea?"

Lara knew tea would keep her up but it shouldn't matter. If Winston had news that were better told after she'd been properly pampered with tea then she probably should not decline that offer.

"Eventful," Lara replied.

They retreated to the kitchen.

Winston was quick with the tea – years of experience. Lara seeted down at a baking table with a simple chair by the windows. The shutters were open and darkness poured in.

So her premonition had been correct. And in a strange way, as Winston said the words, Lara realized she did not feel as surprised as she probably should have, for some reason.

With the words, so much unspoken, so much hidden but unresolved, so much postponed hope was released. What should only have been a minor prick of a needle dug as deep as only a very few things could.

"Lady Lara –" the first time her first name ever had been used by him in this manner; "Lord Croft has died."

Lara gazed out into the dimming horizon, its geometricity a stark contrast to the tempest brewing in her mind. One that she could attempt to diminish in vain, but did not. She left her teacup, left the kitchens, walked back into the hall and seated herself onto the main staircase.

She sat there until dawn.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

II

_Do I hate him?_

Lara fastened her seatbelt, and managed to concentrate on her backpack for a second as she squeezed it under the seat in front of her.

_Do I hate him? Should I feel guilty about it?_

She grabbed a bag of roasted nuts from a passing serving van, and managed to rip it open violently enough to send the contents sprinkled all over her seat.

_My head'll explode in a second. I know it._

She managed to swallow down an enfuriated scream, collected her peanuts, and abandoned the idea of eating.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Royal Jordanian Airlines..." the rattling of the intercom shook Lara out of her reverie. She realized she'd forgot her sunglasses at home.

_Oh god. I'm a mess._

She'd left in a hurry. The next morning after the banquet she'd called the airport, reserved a ticket, stuffed Evers' photocopies into her backpack, thrown the necessary gear into her suitcase in a frenzy, packed more armaments than was probably necessary, and took off, leaving Winston looking rather disoriented due to the tornado she'd made in the house.

Funny how leaving England would not calm her down. It was as though someone had pushed her buttons to overdrive. Suddenly the concept of sitting in a cramped plane for six hours made her feel like being strangled.

_Do I hate him? Should I be guilty about it? Or it is truly so that what you never know can't hurt you?_

She gathered what was left of her dignity, decided to survive the takeoff and then beg a stewardess for an aspirin. Valium. Whisky. Anything.

Six hours later Lara was ready to vow never to leave solid ground when they landed. The flight had been peaceful at most but she couldn't help wanting to move her feet, work up a sweat and wrack her brain with work.

Amman was exactly as she'd remembered. Like a slightly smaller and cleaner version of Cairo, it spread over hilltops and low valleyland. The streets were an organized chaos, but the atmosphere was more laid-back than in Northern Africa. Downtown was an urban furnace of cars, vendors and collective traffic, and the rest of the city built on seven larger hills – _jebels_ was the word – sported only a few greener spots. Although the region had been inhabited for more than five thousands years and during Old Testament times it had been called Rabbath Ammon there were no visible signs of its long-extending history. Amman had a tradition of have been built and rebuilt often since the Ptolemean reign.

Lara had visited Amman briefly for nearly half a dozen times, and although the city itself did not offer much in terms of entertainment or new discoveries, she considered it an outstanding base for explorations elsewhere. Gear and food was easy to come by and the selection was vast, Amman had a large airport that served many important points in nearby countries and accommodation was reasonably priced – it was surprising that the devaluation of the dinar had not affected the tourist industry much. Whatismore, Amman was so hassle-free that Lara never felt the usual need to gaze over her shoulder on a minute-by-minute basis, an annoying attribute of many other large cities.

Lara checked herself into the Granada hotel near the Sri Lankan embassy, dragged her bags upstairs after dismissing a valet, turned the key in the lock, dropped her bags on the floor and slumped on the bed.

The smell of something spicy being cooked floated through the open window from the streets, making Lara's stomach make an uncomfortable cartwheel. Small dust particles in the air made midday seem like twilight.

She smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. On her own and tracing an interesting clue, this was what she was best at. This she could do.

After a few minutes of headache-curing lying facedown on the bed, she went to shut the door and pushed the bags under her bed after digging out some necessities.

She had planned to pick up her reserved rental car the following morning. She'd require a visit to the museum first, to see all possible engravings that had been cut off and brought down from Petra. After this she would spend the evening stacking up some food as she would likely spend some time in the desert, and having meal in a quiet restaurant if she ever found one and if her appetite returned.

A part of her wanted to curl up under the blankets and drift off. She ignored it and kept herself up and going.

_When a shark stops swimming it dies. The difference is, when I stop running I start thinking and that's worse._

The National Archaeological Museum was situated in the shadow of a high-rise apartment block. It was a largish, colonial-era looking stone construction which did not look too complex. After purchasing her entrance ticket and fending off a few would-be amateur guides she walked into the pleasantly air-conditioned main hall. Old, crumpled signs directed to different parts of the galleries. Lara decided to follow the ones titled 'Petra' and climbed upstairs.

The right hallway was suprisingly hard to locate. Lara half-regretted already that she had not contacted the proper authorities prior to her visit. She'd left in such a haste.

_Well, not much I can do now._

Lara could guess that the museum's funding was scarce as she made note of the crumpling glass cases, badly organized collection and dusty corners. A few tourists wandered the corridors, but in general the building was empty. Most tourists probably did not stay long enough in Amman to view the local sights. Or perhaps most headed to Jordan University's small archaeological museum, which was most likely better organized and advertized. There was nothing for Lara there, though – the university collections consisted mostly of small artefacts such as statuettes which would not aid her significantly.

After a few minutes of browsing the Petra galleries Lara sighed in frustration. No stelae, no cut-out engravings. Was it that her sources had been wrong, or had the relics been relocated into another part of the museum?

Deciding it probably wasn't worth the trouble asking a warden, Lara jogged downstairs and knocked on a door with a sign designating it as 'Office'. After a few minutes it opened.

A black-bearded, well-built man appeared in the doorway. Behind him Lara could see a stuffy room with a few _nargils_ – waterpipes – steaming, a few files scattered on the stained table and the leftovers of a plate of _baqlawa_ – local syrupy dessert delicacies – smeared all over a dusty sofa.

"Matha tureed?" came the slightly impolite question. 'What do you want?'

"Masa al-khayr. Bthaki ingleezi?" Lara could speak Arabic quite fluently, but she had a feeling her matter would be too complicated for her still imperfect mastering of the language.

"Masa an-noor. Yes, some English."

"I was wondering where you kept the engravings from Petra."

"Al-athaar Petra?" the man asked, making sure she meant the ruined city.

"Aiwa," Lara replied. The man was obviously reluctant to use English so she decided to play along.

"Downstairs. The basement. For staff only," the man replied, tapping the office sign.

"Afham, shokran jazeelem," Lara replied, thanking the man and indicating she'd understood. This man obviously was not going to be very helpful

"Allah ma'ak," the man spat out and disappeared back behind the closed door, leaving Lara in the corridor.

_So much for the famed Jordanian courtesy._

So the engravings had been moved into the basement, away from tourist eyes. Lara could see why – they were exactly the sort of exhibition pieces that held no interest for the average traveller.

Which meant she had two options. She could either delay her departure for Petra and obtain official permission to view the artefacts, which invariably meant talking to the office worker again. Or she could take advantage of the fact that there were very few guards around, pick the lock which was likely to be old and easy to open, and let herself in.

_I wonder what sort of punishments they deal out for trespassers in Jordan?_ Lara wondered when she cut a corner near the forlorn 'office' and disappeared down a stuttering staircase after gently shoulder-knocking open a door designated 'Archives. Staff only'.

She halted when she finished her treacherous climb downstairs, and found herself in a small, ill-lit corridor with a guard who was eyeing her suspiciously.

Lara flashed an apologetic smile and decided for the standard dumb tourist approach. "Sorry! I must've taken a wrong turn. I was looking for the Petra engravings. God, this place is like, what do they call it, labyrinth."

The man was in his thirties, wearing a worn-out guard uniform. He looked disoriented for a few seconds, confused by Lara's quick flurry of words in English. "Law samaht, go up. Petra up."

"Oh, you speak English! I meant the _other_ Petra collection," Lara quickly cooed, hoping this retarded characde of hers would fool him into believing she was harmless.

The man tapped the door behind him to indicate what he was speaking of. "Other Petra here. But staff only. Assif!" He said apologetically.

"Oh my. I wanted to see it soooo much," Lara tried to look put down.

The man seemed to think hard for a moment and Lara knew she'd pulled the right strings. A tourist woman in need of aid was an unbearable sight for a Arab, it often seemed.

The man stepped closer – even uncomfortably so, kneaded his right thumb into his forefinger in an indication of money, and whispered,"What say, madam, bakshiish and you go in."

Content, Lara dug out a twenty-dinar note and handed it to him with a gallant gesture. "Thank you Sir," she muttered, battering her eyelids.

When he let her into the archives and closed the door, leaving Lara in the darkness to find the switch for the lights, she sighed in relief. Everytime she used the fact that she was a Western woman to her advantage, she felt so cheap.

She found the switch. It didn't work. Luckily she'd for some reason packed her smaller flashlight into her daypack. The cone of light proved sufficient for deciphering inscriptions but not enough to keep her from tripping over cardboard boxes and other motley things on the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

When three hours had passed Lara had scribbled down five pages of notes, went through three crates of stelae, and was content with what she'd found. Her arm muscles ached from lifting the heavy stone slabs out of boxes and placing them back again.

It had turned out that the photocopies she'd gotten from Evers were the missing link indeed. The engravings did not provide much in terms of exact information, but together with a map of Petra she'd acquired they aided Lara in determining the purposes different buildings had been used for. She was most interested in anything designated as "storage". Tourist guidebooks only covered the most picturesque ruins and left out places that were inaccessible, in danger of collapsing, far from the central sights, or otherwise uninteresting.

She would have a good start in Petra as she'd managed to narrow her search down into four sites. One seemed rather unlikely as it was situated quite centrally near the Siqq – a narrow canyon which served as the entrance to the city. It was likely to have been excavated already. The other three were off the beaten track and would probably require the smuggling of a tent and food into the ruins area for staying overnight.

She closed the crates, gathered her notes and left the room, shouting an 'ma'a salaama' – 'peace be to you' – for the guard who flashed him a smile as she disappeared up the stairs.

She left the museum and hit the streets of the bazaar area as darkness began creeping into the city.

During her walk into downtown Lara had passed the Roman Theatre, one of the less than five restored sights of the ancient times in Amman. She'd taken a peek into the ruined structure as admission was free, and had been suprised because of the likeness of the place to the Coliseum in Rome. As well aware as she was of the unbelievably vast effect the Roman empire had had on world culture, it stilt felt strange to see true proof of the unilateral culture of those times. Lara felt in awe of anyone who'd dared to stand against the mighty empire like Cleopatra or Spartacus had.

She'd enjoyed a short break sitting in the front row of the amphitheatre and drinking from her water bottle.

She felt strangely exhilarated, her spirits raised by the things she'd gotten confirmed at the museum. She was no longer in stuffy old England, where trouble seemed to lurk behind every corner.

Winston had tried to reach her via cellphone. Someone had probably called the mansion about the funeral arrangements.

Although it was more likely it was the odd reporter or a business associate. Lara wondered why she had such a strong premonition that someone'd been trying to reach her about her father?

Her jet-lagged mind must've been playing tricks on her.

She'd arrived in the bazaars at eight p.m., shopped for some warm clothes - a couple of gallabias for sleeping, some tea and biscuits for long nights - and stacked up some preserves. She wasn't exactly looking forward to eating from cans again, so she decided to stick to her original plan of finding a suitable restaurant for at least one civilized meal before camping out in Petra.

She did not have to browse long before discovering a tiny place that served the usual Jordanian delicacies including kibbih and faooliya – a well-seasoned bean stew, which Lara stomached with a still almost non-existant appetite. She paid and wandered out. It wasn't late yet – only eight p.m., and she did not much fancy the thought of spending the rest of the evening at the hotel – she'd done quite enough reading for the day.

She decided for a nearby bar frequented by Middle East expatriates, a place decorated with red velvet and mahogany, which reminded Lara of... her father.

If Amman in general had not changed, the Churchill Bar had.

She found the place easily as she'd been there numerous times. Named after Winston Churchill who'd drawn the Saudi-Arabian-Jordanian border known as 'Winston's hiccup' due to its wigglyness, it had always been a spot for Lara to get to speak her mother tongue instead of blabbering in her imperfect Arabic.

Now she could not make out single word in English. The place was smoky, worn-out and full of Jordanians and other Arabs. Nargiles were burning and the scent of apple mixed with tobacco dried Lara's throat.

_Well, then, everything changes,_ she sighed, and seeted herself at the bar. It was no longer under the rule of a Moroccan bartender she'd learned to call 'Mike'. Behind the counter, am Egyptian-looking man in a yellowish dress shirt was polishing a scraped wine glass.

"Masa al-kheer," he greeted Lara carefully, giving her a more-than appreciative yet suspicious gaze which she ignored.

"Masa an-noor. Whisky, law samaht," she requested, looking over her shoulder. Arabic pop was quietly drumming from a forlorn cassette recorder in the corner. She decided to gulp down her drink and get out as fast as she could. She was gathering enough looks as it was.

"Maa fiish," the bartender replied loudly. 'We don't have that.'

Lara was getting slightly annoyed. She decided not to push her luck with requesting another Western variety. There was only one thing she could order that they would certainly have, but the thought did not seem very appealing. "Araq then, if you please," she carefully pronounced, and the bartender gave her a slight nod.

She took another look behind her shoulder. All other customers had returned to what they had been doing.

She received her drink – the local high-alcohol content clear liquid that in Greece went under the title _ouzo_. It was not as bad as she's remembered – she'd drank some before, often trying to drink a potential business partner under the table. Her alcohol consumption had lessened in the recent years, though. It took the edge off her work.

Spur of the moment, she decided to order another. Halfway through her glass of firewater a young man sat down to the bar stool next to her, grinning. The youth was probably not much older than eighteen.

"Min wayn inta?" he inquired without even greeting her formally first. He wanted to know where she was from. In Lara's experience this could mean trouble.

"Ingleeziyya," Lara replied nonchalantly and refused to turn to face him. "Inta?" she asked, inquiring in exchange where he was from. Jordanians were such a patriotic bunch this question was likely to result in sulking and a haste departure.

But the youth grinned even more widely – he obviously now believed he'd established contact. "Dimashq."

So he was from Damascos, Syria. It explained his daring behavior – Jordanians, in Lara's experience, did not try to hit off women in such an impolite way.

"Fii ghurfa il-leylah?" he then enquired, showing his teeth and placing a hand on Lara's thigh. 'Have you got a room tonight', he'd asked.

His audacity had reached a level which made Lara abandon her drink, turn and face him, enraged.

"Shu?" she asked. 'What?'

"Khudni al-otel," the youth requested as though speaking to a chauffeur, cocking his eyebrows. 'Take me to the hotel'. His hand never left her thigh.

Lara grabbed his wrist, and banged it onto the counter. "Haram!" she hissed. 'Shame on you!' which was the worst thing she could come up with.

The youth did not seem the least bit of put off. He tried to touch Lara's arm, and she reciprocated by kicking his chair so it clattered off from below him, sending him falling onto the wooden floor. What followed was a series of curses in Arabic.

Then Lara noticed another young man approaching. _His chum probably. How marvelous._

The rest of the crowd watched, a look of only mild interest on their faces.

The first man scrambled back to his feet. Judging by his expression Lara'd gotten her message clear. But he wasn't through with her yet.

He approached Lara, who was following the other man with her gaze, and slammed her against the counter when she'd been distracted for a split second. Lara replied by ramming her knee up his groin and then slamming her foot onto his sandal-clad toes. He yelped in pain and after doubling briefly over tried to throw a punch. Lara knelt down and his fist hit thin air.

Then her own foot was yanked from underneath her. The youth's recently arrived friend had grabbed her ankle and made her lose her balance. She went down, cursing, and when the second youth approached Lara kicked her legs outwards into the insides of his ankles, and finished the move with a devastating kick to his midriff. He fell backwards like a marionette.

The first youth had plucked up his courage again while Lara jumped back up to her feet. His right hand reached for her throat and he'd dug up a pocket knife from somewhere which he held in his left. Lara jumped back, grabbed a discarded beer bottle and threw it in his face. He didn't duck fast enough, and the bottle hit his face, cracking and leaving a bloody gash on his cheek. He dropped the knife, his left hand flying up to his face. Lara used this time to punch him in his midriff and sweep his legs out with a low sideways kick. He fell, and did not get up.

For a plit second Lara thought about giving him a good kick to the side, but decided she'd had enough.

She left the bar, the slightly annoyed gazes of other customers following her. She hailed a taxi, slumped into the backseat and let out a breath she hadn't realized holding.

Soon the adrenaline faded. The taxi parked outside her hotel, and she turned her daybag upside down in search of her wallet. When she'd found it and quickly paid the driver she stuffed her belongings back into the bag and left the car, legs shaking. It was due to sheer willpower that she managed to scramble up into her room before collapsing onto the bed, cheeks wet with tears.

It was unlikely of her to be so affected by a simple barfight. She'd faced harassment before, and had managed not to let herself wonder what might've happened if she had not been able to defend herself.

Ten years of field work had hardened her, and this should not have been more than a mild annoyance which she would put behind her right after it had happened.

Why did she lay on the bed then, shaking uncontrollably and feeling awful? Why did it feel like any emotion that she let herself experience threw her emotional state into a devouring hurricane? As long as she stayed disinterested and concentrated on her work everything was alright, but the balance was fragile.

_What in God's name is wrong with me?_


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

Part IIThe Darkest Hour

The next morning dawned in brilliant, blinding sunlight. Lara packed her bags, checked out and picked up her rental four-wheel drive. She'd been too exhausted the previous evening to do anything. She'd fallen asleep after three hours of staring blankly at the badly functioning television set, listening to Al-Jazeera news with half an ear while trying to convince herself everything was just fine.

Her mood improved when she hit the road. After a good thirty minutes' drive Amman was nothing more than a blotch in the horizon behind her as she accelerated on the Amman-Suweilah road that wound itself across a vast area of desert between the two cities. It would be a good six hours' drive to Petra.

Traffic was frequent, but everyone kept a good pace and an even better distance, and Lara wound down the windows to enjoy the scorchingly hot wind.

When she would arrived in Petra she'd check into her hotel and pack her backpack. Then she would rent a horse which would enable her to skip the 45 minute walk through the canyon to the entrance of the city. She would spend the day looking into the first site, trying to avoid the prying eyes of guards. When evening approached, she would quietly hike a little further, leaving the hoardes of tourists behind, and find a place to put up her tent. Or perhaps she could spread her sleeping bag inside an empty tomb?

Only Jerusalem prevailed the ancient city in the number of mentions in the Bible. Petra had had a significant role in history for thousands of years, and now served as one of the most stunning tourist attractions in the Middle East.

Lara's interest focused in the Nabataean period, spanning seven centuries from 500 BC to 100 CE. First a mere group of tribes who took over the area from the Edomites, the Nabataeans had been a proud high-culture society to the habits of which numerous conquers had had very little effect. The city-state was threatened for centuries by the empires of the Seleucids and the Egyptians, whose decline allowed the developing of the Nabataean society into grandeur. Their territories were extended, and wealth great due to vibrant trade. Nabataean kings loathed Israelites and the inhabitants of Judah, but had a profound admiration for the culture of the Greeks, which strongly flavoured the architecture of Petra.

Petra had also been deeply woven into the petty squabbles between the Roman governors in the area, and even Cleopatrahad on numerous occasions favoured the biblically famous Herod over other Roman lords in terms of trade. Herod had been Nabatean-born.

Decades later Cleopatra's lover, Marc Anthony turned to Petra for aid in trying to defeat the two other warlords in his former triumvirate, Octavian and Lepidus. He arrived in Petra with several cohorts of soldiers, gold from Egypt and other provinces and promises of a lasting alliance if the Nabataeans offered him their support. It was not known for certain what their reply was, but as is widely known, Marc Anthony did not succeed in becoming the first Roman emperor.

The question was, what had happened to the gold and other tokens of bribery Anthony had brought with him?

The ride was uneventful save for when the road map Lara had placed on the seat next to her blew away in the draft from the windows and she had to pull over to rescue it.

She arrived in Petra late in the afternoon after stopping by at a peculiar sight just before the small tourist village before the Siqq: solid, carved cubic rocks on the roadside. They were several metres in breadth and some as high as six metres. In Arabic they were referred to as _sahrij_ – the translation 'water-wells' being somewhat misleading. They were often situated near running water, hence the name, but not associated with it at all. Instead, they were the dwellings of ancient Nabataean spirit-guardians. Lara tried to climb the ragged surface of a smaller block but it was carved so smooth she could not find any sufficient handholds. Nevertheless, they were a peculiar sight, like modern sculptures in the middle of the barren desert.

The village of Wadi Musa had been swallowed by tourism and now served as the starting point of a winding path lined with hotels that lead up to the entrance to the Siqq – the canyon entrance.

She threw her bags into her reserved room in the Petra Forum Hotel, packed her things hastily, and set off.

It was easy to find a horse – the offers were plentiful. Most of the animals were quite small, and often she was offered donkeys or mules despite the fact that she had indeed requested after a horse, but in a few minutes she found an elderly man with several dark-coloured and muscled horses that were in good condition and energetic. Lara refused the offer for company, mounted her chosen steed – an almost black mare with a white mark the shape of a crescent moon on its forehead. She agreed to return the horse later that evening to its owner who would be waiting for her near the Street of Facades inside the city. From there she would hike further into the desert and find a place to sleep in.

The afternoon sun was warm and pleasant, but its effects were lost inside the Siqq. The 1,5 kilometres long gorge was not the only entrance to Petra, but by far the most spectacular and convenient one.

Inside the shadows were long and water dripped from tiny crevices in the dark yellow rock walls. Th sand was fine and white, and the footfalls of Lara's horse echoed several seconds. She could hear a group of tourists chattering and walking the same route behind her, but the sounds became quieter as she gained distance.

She also heard other echoes, as though Djinns or other spirits were wailing, trapped inside the stones, but it must've been the wind. Or perhaps water expanding and cracking the rock.

Far above, flocks of sparrows rose to the skies and settled into their nests or chased after insects. The highest parts of the gorge were illuminated by sunlight, the rock glowing with a rose-red shape which had made Petra so famous.

Lara was glad to be on horseback again. She'd learned to ride in her childhood as it was a common pastime for high-society children, and regretted that she did not often have the chance to use her skills. The steady rocking and the tense, moving muscles underneath her body gave an almost hypnotizing sensation. Lara almost felt sorry that she was not there just to marvel at the sights.

_When did I stop just looking and wondering? When did my work become such a routine that I began to forget to really take note of my surroundings?_

She had seen a good portion of the wonders of the world, but what first came to mind about each place where the discoveries she'd made there. She wondered in the Nabataeans themselves had realized what a magnificent place they'd created and lived in? Probably not.

Somewhere further away pebbles clinked down the gorge surface, sounding like shards of glass dropped on ice.

The Siqq ended and opened into a wider chasm and finally into open air.

Lara gasped. Beyond the Siqq she could suddenly see a magnificent sight – the Al-Khasneh Farun with its temple-like facade. It was pinkish rose-red and intricately carved, and rose out of the dust and sand like a temple floating on a cloud. The best-reserved monument in Petra, its name could be translated into 'Treasury of Pharaoh'. Quite a promising title considering what Lara was looking for, but it had been thoroughly searched and the title was but a nickname without a historical background. It had probably been a tomb of King Harith IV which had degenerated into a toll booth during the Roman times. It was possible that it had also served as a temple for the imported goddess Isis, or Al-Uzza in Nabataean.

The pillars were in Corinthian style and Lara admired the way the best attributes of Greek style had been fusioned with detailed, intricate Indoeuropeic carvings.

She continued further and went off the beaten path to find the Temple of the Winged Lions. Lions had been sacred to Al-Uzza, and the pillars adorning this recently discovered temple were so beautiful Lara took the time to quickly sketch them into her notepad. She left her horse tied to a next to a water well, and began her search for the first storage chamber.

After two hours of climbing up and down rocky surfaces Lara found a small crevice blocked by sand. It was in the direction she'd expected. She dug out her notes from the museum along with Evers' photocopies.

The stelae housed in the museum in Amman had been part of a frieze which seemed to be included in many of the buildings. It was a map of some sorts, a series of spheres with the main buildings marked down as symbols. The Lion Temple had naturally been signaled with a lion, but left of it which in nature would mean a few hundred meters, lay a small cave-like area marked with a scroll. It could have meant a library, but why build one in the outskirts of the city instead of the central parts?

Lara earned a mass of scrapes on her hands by removing the rubble blocking the entrance by hand.

Inside, she found a small room. Sunlight floated in from holes in the ceiling rock. It was completely empty, save for some carvings blackened by fire.

Lara inspected them as the sun slowly began setting. The first one was mostly destroyed, but she could make out the image of a fish of some sorts – a valuable import in a city in the middle of the desert.

The second one showed a woman carrying pots and urns and a small boy holding what seemed a pidgeon. There was a building in Petra titled The Columbarium which usually meant a housing for these birds, but in terms of archaeology it meant a set of niches for burial urns, and this was its likeliest explanation in Petra.

The last carving in a series of five still had some vibrant colours left, strenghtened by the red hue of the rock face. It showed an Asian-looking woman with a snake tiara laying down items of jewellery on a strangely shaped stone which looked like a heart.

Lara looked around but did not find such a stone. Could this be another interlinked carving – one she would find in most storage areas? She truly hoped so, as this woman could be no other than Cleopatra. The snake tiara was a good clue, and the African look an even better one. Cleopatra had been Greek, but the rumours and legends circulating the opposite shores of the Mediterranian had described her as an orient seductress, thus everyone had painted a mental picture of a dark beauty. She even had almost black skin in the engraving.

She made as thorough notes as she could, and then hurried to ride to the City Centre to meet her horseman. Perhaps she could arrange to ride the same horse the following day as well.

She found the Street of Facades fifteen minutes late. The sun cast its last rays as she patted her horse a gentle goodbye and turned her back to the Siqq, beginning her hike towards the Snake Monument.

After an hour it got completely dark, and Lara realized she must've walked off her route by a kilometre or two. Luckily there were more than enough tombs to go by, despite the fact that she was quite far from the main parts of Petra. She decided to leave worrying for the following day and enjoy a quiet meal outside before settling in for the night.

She made a fire into which she tossed every dry branch she could find, which was just enough to warm a can of peas and to revive an _eish_ – a Jordanian flat bread that shared the same word as life in Arabic. It was as important to the Jordanians as rice was to Indians.

It wasn't exactly a gourmet meal, but would do to settle her complaining stomach. She was actually suprised to realize she was hungry.

_Downside of doing field work,_ she thought grimly and swallowed down the last sticky peas with a gulp of lukewarm water from her bottle.

She sat on a rock in the moonshine for a long time, not so much lost in thought but feeling serene and blank for a change. She was tired in a healthy way, tired after a physically straining day and not as the result of having too much to think about.

On the other hand, her work for the day was done and now any stray uncomfortable thought could easily surface and begin to irk her.

She wondered what Winston was doing. She'd given him strict directions on how to handle reporters, relatives ad friends who probably were calling in on her all the time. One reason why she felt like being away from the house. She could always have left the answering to Winston and simply refused to talk to anyone, but she'd still hear the phone ringing, feeling the silent urge that surfaced when she just knew someone wanted something from her.

Here she was on her own and noone demanded anything of her.

_Still, it would be nice to have someone talk to._

Where had that come from? Wasn't she here because she wished to be alone? And what could she probably wish to talk about?

Her father? Not by a long shot. Herself? Not much interest in that either.

Perhaps archaeology. Everyday things. Art.

Just talk.

True enough, she talked to Winston a lot when she was at home and on the phone when she was travelling, but they kept stricly to business. There was the exception of the night he'd stayed up to tell her that... she'd received the phonecall.

Still, the old saying that one should be careful of what one wished for came to mind. If she had someone to talk to who would that be. A friend? She had a few of those but most were business-based acquointances. A lover? She did not have one and the trouble she'd have to go through to find one felt horrendous as a project. She'd grown weary of such dating games ages ago.

A relative? There was Aunt Gillian, of course.

But none of these alternatives were available at the moment and where she was, sitting on a cool, red rock in the middle of the Greater Syrian Desert.

And she could never have believed that she could come across someone in this barren land.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

But she did. Or more like it, someone came across her a good forty minutes later.

First it was a shape climbing a steep hill a few kilometres away from where Lara was sitting. She could spot it easily with her infrared goggles but could not make out any features.

Then suddenly it was a tall man, walking straight towards her. Lara wondered how he could he have spotted her in the dark before realizing her goggles had a very much visible red 'ready' light.

It was unusual but not by far impossible to have such an encounter in the desert. In Egypt camel-herders sometimes rode their younger animals after nightfall, and Jordania and Syria certainly had their inhabitants of the desert – the Bedouins.

Lara could not tell if the man approaching her belonged to one of the nomadic tribes, but it was a possibility. The Bedouins numbered about 40 000 in Jordania only. Most lived quite modernly, but a great few had preserved their semiprimitive lifestyles, living in large tents and wandering the deserts following ancient routes. The most prominent tribes of these tightly organized people, the Beni Sakh, the Huweitat and the Sirhan, herded camels of horses. According to legend these people regarded hospitality second only to honour, so it would not be uncommon for a Bedouin to take contact with any strangers wandering the desert and inviting them for a stay.

The man climbed a last portion of the hill, and approached Lara. He wore black, wide trousers topped with a wide tunic and a black scarf – as though he'd walked straight from a remake of 'The Lawrence of Arabia'.

Lara dropped down from her rock. She could now see a lot better in the scarce light and could even distinguish some of his facial features as he walked up to her.

"As salaam aleikum, ajnabi," he greeted in an inquisitive, pleasant baritone. 'Peace be with you, foreigner'. The last word was not an accusation or a profanity, more like a courteous title. He nodded politely as well.

Lara nodded back, being careful not to look straight into his face. He was an Arab, but in his manners there was something different. He was slow in his words and his motions like a gentleman. Lara decided she liked him for some reason. "Wa aleikum as-salaam," she replied. 'With you as well.' "Btahki ingleezi?" she inquired.

The man suddenly smiled. "Yes, I do," he replied with perfect pronounciation. "May I enquire if you name is Lara Croft?"

Lara looked down, feeling slightly smug for the attention. "How did you know?"

"Your face is quite a known one."

Lara sighed inwardly. Usually, if people knew who she was they had all sorts of expectations and prejudices. "May I then know your name unless you want to hold me at a disadvantage?"

The man smiled just as warmly as he had before. "I am Hussain, after my Father. Of the Sirhan."

Lara swallowed, slightly put off but intrigued. So he was a Bedouin! But how could he speak such outstanding English?

"You speak English very well. I did not expect it," she admitted.

The man corrected his scarf. "You underestimate the _bedu_." Bedu, meaning inhabitants of the desert in Arabic. "Are you alone? _Mufrada_?"

Lara nodded. "My gear's in the cave." She pointed towards the tomb.

Hussain craned his neck to peek in. "It will be safe there. Would you accept our invitation?"

Lara knew some of what this meant. She was being invited for a meal, perhaps a stay. True, she'd gulped down her peas, but the appalling taste had prevented her from filling her stomach. Why shouldn't she accept?

"Shoukran jazeelam," she replied absently, "I would be delighted," she added.

Hussain peeked a little closer to meet her eyes. His eyes were icy blue and Lara did not dare to hold the gaze for long. "Afwan," he replied to indicate she was welcome.

Lara emptied her backpack of unnecessary things, pulled a gallabia on top of her shorts and cropped top, and followed Hussain down the mountain. After they'd turned a few times Lara could spot the camp area – a collection of huge tents and a fenced area for what seemed hundreds of horses. Numerous fires were burning. It was a scene that brought to Lara's mind images from A Thousand and One Nights.

They made their way through the perimeter area of the camp and Lara was surprised at the speed with what Hussain moved. She was an experienced hiker herself, but he, only scandal-clad, could outwalk her easily. She had to take odd running steps to keep up.

The opened the thick fabric acting as the door for the largest tent.

Inside, the sight that greeted Lara was spectacular. An open but controlled fire raged in the middle, surrounded by round and flat pillows on which dozens of people sat, talked and laughed. Intricate carpets covered the ground, the tent fabric flapped in the wind, and brass objects including star-shaped lamps were everywhere. Nargiles burned and three men with strange-looking instruments were playing a rhytmic melody to which some small children were dancing to.

Lara stopped, unsure whether she could enter as most of the persons present were male. Her plain white gallabia felt embarrassingly cheap compared with the colourful and decorative wear of the nomads.

Hussain gestured her forward and she trailed in his wake. While they were walking across the luscious carpets some women walked in to fill the nargiles. Most of their dresses were dark-blue, the colour of the night-sky. Lara hoped she could find such a dress from somewhere. They were utterly beautiful.

In her job she usually witnessed the glory of the ancients and tended to forget that existing cultures had often equally wonderful things to offer. This was how these people had been living for centuries and centuries.

Still, modern world crept slowly everywhere. Lara noticed a kerocene stove in a corner.

An elderly man with a crinkled face but a very distinguished look was sitting on the softest and largest of pillows. Hussain nodded to him and whispered something.

The scene was so arcaic it seemed amusing to Lara. It was as though she'd been windswept into the past.

The old man listened to Hussain, and then raised his palm upwards at the musicians. They paused, and all the people gathered near the fire turned their attention to the old man.

The old man's eyes were twinkling as they fixed on Lara who was standing on the carpet feeling forlorn. "Ahlan wa sahlan!" he shouted, and raised his cup of coffee. The others shouted the welcome to Lara as well, and soon she found herself sitting next to Hussain around the fire on a huge, soft pillow with a cup of strong coffee steaming in her fingers. The musicians began playing again, and several people came to address Lara in Arabic, asking where she was from, how long she'd been in Jordan and how on Earth had she learned to speak Arabic? And most of all, was she married and why not?

There was the possibility that some of them were entertaining the idea that Hussain had kidnapped himself a Western wife but Hussain himself definitely was not thinking in these terms. He regarded Lara with warm politeness, answered her curious questions but gave her leeway.

Soon the women reappeared, carrying with them huge brass trays of chicken, kebab, beans, yoghurt-based sauces, lemon and coriander paste and other delicacies. Lara was nearly forced to taste each and everyone.

She felt like home, and was glad for the experience – she'd gotten some company and they were making her feel more welcome than she even felt in her own home. And the food was marvellous – she wasn't certain she could walk back to her camp later with her bloated stomach.

Then it was time for dessert – bowls of hot, syrupy pastries. Lara ate several, but she had to thank now when she heard _tafadali_ – 'go ahead' – for the eleventh time, and settled for her third cup of coffee.

Lara kept asking questions, and Hussain and the others replied kindly. When the plates were being gathered away, she dared to ask Hussain what had been puzzling her for a long time. "Who is that man?" she carefully nodded at the old man in the corner. She had a good guess, but wanted confirmation.

"My Father, Hussain."

Lara smiled. "So you still live at home," she joked, and Hussain laughed.

"With the Sirhan and other tribes, we both live at home and with our own families, those who have one. Our camp is a village, where everyone has a tent of their own, but in the evenings we gather for food, music and stories. It is how the old ones teach the young ones."

Lara felt sad. This was a tradition that was lost in the West. "You still haven't told me where you've learned English?" She decided not to ask him if he had a family.

"I studied in Toronto. Three years."

"Oh." She wanted to ask him what he'd studied but he somehow gave the impression of being reluctant to discuss the subject. Lara swallowed down her coffee. "I'd better be going. I have a lot to do tomorrow."

"It is a long walk back. You could stay the night."

"Thank you but no. I'd better get to work early so I wouldn't want to do the hike back in the morning. Otherwise I won't have much energy left for my work." He's asked about her profession and she'd told him she was an archaeologist. She half expected him to try and persuade her, but again, he gave her space.

"Then, we can ride. But first, you must greet my Father."

Lara stood up to wobbly feet. She'd been sitting for so long her muscles were sleepy. He followed Hussain to meet the old man.

He grabbed Lara's hands into his own. His skin was worn and paper-thin but warm and smooth. He stroked her thumb and said, "Fi aman Allah", 'go with God.' Then he added something else.

"Ana ma afhan?" Lara inquired, saying she had not understood.

"May you return to us tomorrow," Hussain translated, whispering into her ear.

Lara nodded. Perhaps she would. "Yarhamukallah," she said quietly, 'God bless you'. The old man nodded, and let go of her hands.

Together with Hussain she walked out.

They walked to the horse fence. The animals were Arabian horses, stunningly beautiful with their varied colours and gentle eyes. Their breath steamed in the icy night air.

"Choose one you wish to ride," Hussain offered, and gently touched Lara's back to steer her closer to the fence.

Lara flinched at his touch. Usually she would have been offended, but in Hussain she could read nothing improper. He watched her in the starlight, his expression quiet but serene. Lara felt she was under some sort of strange protection.

She watched the animals. "Can I really pick any horse?" she inquired, feeling like a child in a toyshop on Oxford street. These were magnificent animals.

He nodded, opening the gate and walking into the midst of the horses. They did not become alert at his presence, just breathed gently into his neck as though going through some sort of an identification ritual.

Lara climbed up onto the fence to see better. It was very late but she did not care to know the exact time. It wasn't of importance.

She pointed at a charcoal-black animal with thin but powerful legs and curvy figure. "That one."

Hussain smiled. "Good choice," he commented and brought the horse by pulling from its halter. He didn't exactly have to pull as the horse followed him voluntarily. He grabbed a whitish, speckled mare for himself and walked to meet Lara after closing the gates.

He gave a pair of reins to Lara to attach to the halter. No saddle. "His name is Shway," he informed her.

The dark horse eyed her benevolently. 'Shway' meant 'slowly'. It probably did not refer to the horse's maximum speed, rather than some poetic image. What first came to Lara's mind made her blush. She hoped he would not notice.

After all, a sexual innuendo wasn't likely to be too far off. Arabic poetry was often quite excuisitely erotic. He had not seemed to take any secret pleasure in informing her of the name, so she felt embarrassed and childish.

The mounted their steeds and set off for the mountain. They indulged in some wild galloping in the valley area but when the hills got steeper they slowed down to gait.

"Do you live with your family, Lara?" Hussain asked all of a sudden.

Lara snapped out of her reverie. "No, I don't." Now this was a subject _she_ didn't wish to delve into.

"Does your Father still live? Is he hoping you would marry?"

Lara rode in silence for a moment. Not this again. She felt annoyed but not at Hussain – how could he guess this was a delicate subject? No, she was more enraged at herself for feeling so jittery.

"He died recently." She quickly replied, ignoring his second question.

"Ma sha Allah," he muttered. 'God's will be done'. Lara considered it slightly offending, but reminded himself that Moslims were fatalists and this was his way of comforting her.

They arrived at her camp tomb. The dark cave did not seem inviting at all, but Lara had had worse. A _lot_ worse. They dismounted.

They stood silent for a moment. Usually such a silence would have been uncomfortable, but Hussain's calm demeanor only made it into a quiet moment of reflection which did not invade Lara's thoughts at all.

He did not expect anything of her. Nor did she expect anything from him. Still, she couldn't just bring herself to thank for the evening and retire to the cave.

"Fursa sa'ida," he finally whispered. 'It was lovely to meet you'.

"You, too." Lara yawned. "Sorry."

"You are tired. Perhaps we shall meet tomorrow. You are welcome to join us for a meal. We would serve a _mensef_." A traditional meal for a honorary guest, the _mensef _was a delicate lamb dish usually served in portions large enough for the whole camp to enjoy. Lara felt honoured but she could not be certain she could promise to come.

"Yimkin," Lara replied. 'Perhaps'. Lara looked down, unsure what to do.

Suddenly Hussain touched her chin with his forefinger and lifted it so that she was looking into his eyes again. They held only sorrow, nothing else. "I am sorry for your Father, Lara."

Then he dismounted his horse and rode off, the darker animal Lara had ridden running free following them.

Lara stood and watched him disappear, feeling like crying again.

_What a silly, weak sod I am._


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

The next morning Lara took some time to inspect her sleeping quarters as she had not seen much in terms of colour and detail in the darkness. Here the rock wasn't as red as in the heart of Petra, but there were decoractive veins of quartzite in the walls of the small tomb she'd spread her sleeping bag in. It was a roughly carved, probably unfinished and thus unused burial place. Lara liked to think that used tombs had a specialized reek – one of dry bones mixed with murky water, stuffiness and death, and this certainly did not hold that appeal. It was just a cave.

And it was good enough for another night if she fancied the idea later on. But right now she would have to get to work.

Her boots were damp due to nighttime moisture, and she changed on a fresh pair of socks. They'd be damp as well soon but she didn't care. Blisters were the least of her worries.

A certain phonecall she ought to make soon would be the worst.

She resisted the urge to hike a kilometre behind the nearest hill to have a look at what the camp looked like during daylight but that would have to wait. _Maybe indefinitely_, she reasoned, but something told her she would return. Soon.

Site number two on her list turned out to be a partridge in a pear tree – a public toilet her ancient maps understandably knew nothing about had been built into it. It had originally been a tomb, but the remains and the artefacts had been transported into Amman. _Not exactly a blasphemy, but I certainly wouldn't fancy the thought of a family crypt turned into a tourist lavatory._

Then she reminded herself that she would most likely never be buried in the Croft family plot, and forgot all about the Nabataean tomb. Where _would_ she be buried then? On a regular five-year term rental plot in some modern graveyard next to a drug rehab clinic? Or would her bones rot in some Peruvian sacrificial well with an empty casket buried in Britain? Or would she simply vanish, missed by noone except Winston?

Or _would_ she be buried in the family lot with her Father and Mother? She could be, unless a will forbade it.

Lara bought a carton of orange juice from a passing vendor and sat down onto a rock that lined the Cardo Maximum or 'Paved Pathway', watching tourists promenade towards the Qasr al-Bint Farun.

A few minutes later she joined the hoardes of tourists and checked her watch. She had plenty of time left to check out the second site if she wanted and still pick up some gear from the hotel assuming she took a taxi from the Siqq exit.

She hiked to the Qasr. It was a fortress-like building that bore the name of 'The Castle of Pharaoh's Daughter'. It was in ruins and the structure was not easy to make out. Her maps placed another storage are a good five hundred metres behind it behind an almost vertical rock face and a sidelining gorge. Lara checked that noone was in sight – according to the infomration she had climbing was forbidden only inside the ruins themselves, but didn't want to risk unwanted attention anyway. She dug out her ropes and hooks, strapped on her harness, and began the short climb. Footholds were plentiful and the wall only some twelve metres high so it only took a few minutes to get up. She tied the rope to a rock and pulled it up – it would be unwise to leave it dangling in case a guard came to inspect.

Lara let out a sigh of relief. No company there. She would still have to get past that gorge, though.

It was a gaping wound in the cliff lining the path to the Unfinished tomb and the Zibb Farun – a single obelisk which had gotten quite a crude name in Arabic.

Lara measured approximately two metres of rope and tried to throw the end across to measure the distance. The rope was slightly wider than the breadth of the rope. She could just about make it if she tried hard enough.

She grabbed her original climbing rope which would at least prevent her from plummeting into certain death some twenty metres below. She'd bang against the rock face if she fell, of course, but at least she could pull herself back up.

Lara tied the rope with an eight figure knot into her harness, flung her backpack to the other side, backed a few steps and then began running as fast as she could.

_Here goes nothing,_ she thought when ground disappeared from underneath her. A split second later, she hit solid ground on the other side with a thunk that put her knees into agony. She fell onto her side and rolled back onto her feet, patting sand off her shorts.

She would definitely have to get back before dark. The jump would be no playing matter without light to see where the gorge ended and where it began.

She descended down a ramp-like slant of rock into a well-hidden large crevice. Now this looked like a place to hide valuables in.

It was pitch dark inside and the place was the shape of a well. Lara lit her torch and peered inside, hoping she'd have brought more rope. _Well then, can't have everything,_ she sighed, and carefully climbed inside, locking her soles into the side walls and chimneying herself down using her hands, torch held between her teeth.

Luckily it was only some three metres deep.

Being in the bottom was like standing inside a pressure kettle. The chamber had been carved round and smooth like the insides of a kettle. A well-preserved mosaic circled the walls. Lara lit another torch and stuck it inside a crevice to illuminate the images.

She half-expected to find Cleopatra, so was disappointed when the whole wall was filled with images of war. Attack wagons pulled by strong-looking horses. Spears being thrown, soldiers running, arrows flying. The scene reminded Lara of the still rather colourful and violent reliefs at the temple of Ramses II in the west bank of Thebes in Egypt. Hadn't the Nabataeans have something to do with the Battle of Kadesh engraved into the walls of Ramses' temple? They had certainly been formidable enemies of the Egyptian empire once, but Lara could not recall if they had fought against Ramses' army.

The last scene was peculiar. Gold and iron-coloured liquids were being melted into battleaxes and spears, even arrows. Surely they had not used gold for their weapons? Such a waste.

Save for the skeleton of a bat, the well was otherwise empty.

_Another wild goose chase then._

The last site would have to be the one. Otherwise she would have to leave empty-handed.

Her spirits dampened, she made her way across the gorge again.

The taxi left her at the hotel entrance. It felt strange being in the midst of so-called civilization again. Lara walked up to her room and spent a few minutes staring out of the window. Wadi Musa boomed with neon lights whose cones could even reach the entrance of the Siqq. The illuminated Lara's room even if she tried pulling the curtains closed. A dreadful place to sleep in.

In the main street, drunken tourists made use of the laid-back atmosphere lacking in Amman but present in Wadi Musa by bringing their beer bottles outside. Their hollering and the clink of glass made Lara nervous. _Such a shame_, she thought sadly, _they come here convincing themselves they wish to see Petra and then all they're really looking forward to is the booze after a day of dull hiking among ruins._

Oh well. She had a call to make now that she was in the vicinity of a telephone. She sat down on the bed, not feeling the slightest bit of guilt when raising her soiled boots onto the bedcover. She wouldn't be using the bed anyways for at least one more night.

She dialled the country code for Britain and then a familiar number.

"Hello?" answered her aunt. Was it just Lara's imagination or did she sound slightly troubled?

"It's me." Lara didn't bother with her name. Gillian could tell anyway.

"How great to hear from you, Love. I assume you've heard the news?" her Aunt asked carefully.

_Don't remind me._

"Yes, I've heard it. I called to ask about the funeral. Will you be - -" Lara's tone was more stern than she would've liked.

"I will be handling the arrangements. It will be held on the twenty-eight as well as the reading of the will. You are required to attend." Gillian sounded apologetical.

Lara was slightly confused. "Me, why?"

"You are mentioned in the document. In which way I do not know."

What was this? _His last sadistic act, his last chance to downplay his traitor daughter in front of the rest of the family!_

Had she been given a choice, she would not have attended. But it would mean Gillian extra trouble if she didnt – she'd have to postpone the will-reading.

_Poor Daddy, his bones rotting in a morgue storage because his daughter is doing exactly what she wants and refusing to attend his funeral,_ she thought sarcastically.

"Of course, you could arrange for a representative."

Her rescue. "Would Winston do or would it require a family member?"

Gillian coughed, sounding slightly disappointed. "He would do fine."

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to update you on the rose, it's just that I'm in Jord-" Lara began blabbering away, but her Aunt interrupted gently.

"Lara. How are you?"

"Fine." she stuck up her chin stubbornly even though Gillian could not see her.

"I mean, how do you feel - -"

"I'm quite alright. Listen, I would love to chat but there are a million things I need to check tonight and there's somewhere I have to be – " Now _why _had she said that?

Gillian decided not to push her. Lara wasn't being herself, that was for certain. "Alright then. We'll meet when you return to Surrey then, won't we? It's my time to come for a visit," Gillian offered a little more warmly.

"Certainly. Take care," Lara replied, relieved.

"Take care, Love. Bye." The dialtone returned as Gillian cut off.

Lara let down the receiver.

She wanted, no, correction, _needed _to get out of the empty, lonely room.

Lara discarded her laundry into a corner, packed some more food into her backpack, and returned to the Siqq by taxi. She hiked the canyon as the sun was setting, and then made her way to the already familiar abandoned tomb in the west outskirts of the archaeological site. This time she'd even remembered to bring a kerocene lamp and some fuel.

Here it was so quiet.

First she'd been annoyed by the noise and the presence of the phoneline, now she felt she couldn't handle the silence either.

_I'm going mad. Positively._

She needed people. Again. She needed _life_, not this damp tomb and the sounds of the desert. But the company she needed could not be found in the bars surrounding Wadi Musa either.

Before she'd realized she was walking away from Petra towards a familiar cliff which gave a magnificent scenery over the surrounding valleys. Down below shone the lights of the camp of the Sirhan.

Lara didn't spare a thought to her immodest dress, sweaty hair or the gear she'd left in the cave. She began climbing down the hill towards the welcoming lights.

An hour later she sought out the largest tent and peeked inside. Hiding herself partly behind the door fabric, she gazed around in search of Hussain. Like often happened when someone's looking at a certain person, he soon looked in Lara's direction, and delight dawned onto his face. He snuck out of the conversation he'd been having and left the tent.

Lara was freezing, hugging herself in the wind although it was not particularly cold. She had not eaten for hours, she suddenly realized. Hussain joined her near the horse fence.

"So you returned. Ahlan wa sahlan," he welcomed her, although his words seemed as empty as any Westerner's when laying out idle polite phrases. Perhaps his Western studies had had a negative impact in certain aspects.

"Thank you. I just didn't want to be alone," she found herself suddenly confessing. He nodded, and for the first time she dared to lock eyes with him.

"Here you are always welcome. My Father inquired about you. He asked what you do for a living. I thought that you might not like it so I did not tell him you are famous, only said that you have recovered many ancient treasures."

"Not recently I haven't." Lara gazed out into the pitch black desert. Why was it that everything was suddenly going so wrong? Everything felt false, except for a few things, like the situation she was presently in. This place was real, these people were human and not pretentious bastards rivalling each other for gain. Often it had seemed that her morals created an invisible barrier most colleagues could not cross. She felt at home for a change. These people took her for what she was, not by her fame.

"But you _are_ here to seek a treasure, right?" he asked, smirking.

"Maybe," Lara teased. "Could you possibly get me a gallabia or something? I'm freezing but don't want to offend anyone."

Hussain glanced at her boots and Lara realized he had not spared one look at her body before. Was it because she'd only worn a baggy gallabia? Or was it because in his opinion she wasn't much to look at?

Somehow Lara felt as though her looks did not matter to him at all. He was pleasantly curious about her as a person, with no regard to her Western way of life, her family, her history, her achievements or shortcomings.

He disappeared into a nearby tent. Lara could hear him conversing casually with a female voice – his wife? Soon he returned with one of the decorative blue dresses she'd admired the previous evening.

Lara's eyes widened. "I can't possibly wear that, it's too - - I'll probably spill coffee on it or something!" Cocktail dresses she could handle but this was hand-woven. It had probably taken months of work.

"It's alright. Zaila wants you to have it. She has several."

Lara was flabbergasted. He'd heard stories of the Bedouins' hospitality from colleagues – she knew that if you commented an object positively you would be offered it as a gift. But she had not uttered a word about the dresses. How had Hussain guessed? Or was it just a coincidence?

She also knew refusing would be very impolite. Hussain passed her the wrapped piece of fabric, and she held it carefully. "Alright Hussain, but could you please then get me something more ordinary to wear while we eat?"

He laughed. "You worry too much, Lara," he commented before disappearing into the tent again.

Soon Lara was wearing a simple white ankle-lenght cotton gallabia.

"Is Zaila... your sister?" Lara asked Hussain before they entered the main tent, expecting a no and the story of how they'd gotten married.

"No." Lara was annoyed by the fact that she'd been right. _Now why is that?_

"He is the widow of my brother. He was an Islamist who died in Golan ten years ago."

"I'm sorry," was the only comment Lara came up with. She wanted to inquire whether the family shared Hussain's brother's ideals in high honour, but he spared her the trouble.

"My Father almost could not cope. He was against Bayram's involvement, said such matters did not touch us here in the desert. In reality they do, in a way, but no other from this family has ever been politically active. Still, when he was buried my Father, for the first time, travelled to Amman for the funeral. My brother had many friends, friends his family did not share or approve of."

Lara felt a pang of jealousy. Hussain's Father was a wise man, it seemed. His son had many undesired decisions but had not been cut out of the family like a rotten apple from a tree. Cut out like she herself had been.

Lara nodded silently, but inside her the familiar rage that surfaced everytime her Father came into her thoughts emerged again. Rage she had thought long gone. It was either rage or sorrow, and she preferred the more aggressive approach. But the more tired she became, the more difficult it was to find that reserve of anger.

They entered the tent. Lara sensed they'd been expected. Baba Hussain, the old man, raised his glass of araq at Lara and she nodded courteously. They seeted down next to the fire, and soon the trays of food were brought forth again, this time almost dipping over with _mensaf_ – roasted lamb filled with rice and seasoned with a dozen spices including almonds and pine nuts.

It was the best meal Lara had ever had. She ate until she could no longer move, feeling her soul quench its hunger as well as her body as she took in the pleasant, happy company.

After dinner half of the oil lamps were turned off, and storytelling and dancing began. First the menfolk of the family performed traditional dances, culminating in the _mukhtar _- a sword dance of Circassian origin.The men challenged each other into a sort of a battle ballet, imitating complex series or sweeps and strikes. Lara was mesmerized. She had rarely seen such swordplay.

"How do you challenge someone?" she acquired Hussain, perhaps leaning a bit too close to be heard over the playing of the musician's _rababas_ and flutes.

"You take a bow and then you tap your left foot on the ground and your right hand on the sword in front of him. Lara, you're not thinking - - " He sounded horrified. But Lara knew what she was doing. She grabbed a sword that had been leaning against an ornate side table. It had a handle perhaps a little wide for her taste, but the sabre-like blade was in good condition and not too heavy.

When the previous performers returned to their seats Lara stood up again, walked up to Hussain and challenged him. To everyone's utter surprise Lara then turned and walked up to another man, a heavy youth who'd proved to be very fast in his moves. Lara challenged him as well, then took a low stance between the two men.

Hussain seemed hesitant to strike her at first, but the youth had no such objections. He attacked Lara with wide, circling sweeps and she pivoted on her right foot and parried them easily. Hussain tried to nail her from behind, but she was too fast. She swung her blade in semicircles, changing the angle according to the height of the sweeps of her opponents.

After a good two minutes of fighting she dropped lower and did a backflip off the circle they'd created.

Applause and loud hollering combined with the women's appreciative, high-pitched ululations accompanied her return to her sitting pillow.

Baba Hussain requested his son to approach and whispered him something. Hussain then returned to Lara, his face awesome but friendly.

"Father says you fight well," he said to her. Lara smiled. It wasn't often she had the chance to use such skills, and it was always a thrill to try out new weapons. "Thankyou. Was that all he said?"

Hussain laughed. "You are perceptive. He also said that you have no choice but to stay with us tonight."

It wasn't as though Lara was in a dreadful hurry to get up early now that she'd already spelunked three sites. "I will accept."

Hussain's expression was serene. Lara decided she loved this about him, the way minor matters did not disturb him, but he could discuss more gravelly subjects if the situation called. She could relax in his company. Or perhaps it was the desert that made her feel so strange?


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

After the dancing the musicians disappeared, coffee and araq was brought forth in copious quantities, and the storytelling began. Baba Hussain took his turn first.

Lara soon learned that Bedouin stories were tragically romantic and dealt with lost love, freedom and most of all, honour. As the hour became later and the amount of araq in Lara's blood raised she could understand less and less of the complex structures of the traditional tales told in lively Arabic. There were a lot of unfamiliar words to her. Hussain translated occasionally, but mostly concentrated on listening and casting the occasional sideways glances at Lara.

The stories made her sad. Love was scarce in her life and sometimes she felt as though the fact was twisting her insides like a knife, but still, would she personally choose death over love?

The honour part brought her down to Earth even more. In the stories parents abandoned, even slaughtered their own children if they'd committed terrible crimes of the _muhlikat_ type – murder, rape or suchlike. Shouldn't the society punish them rather than their family?

Suddenly Lara realized that in the desert, there was no society. Only family. And if something threatened it the passage of daily life was in danger as well, and something had to be done. An honest, hard-working Bedouin prospered. A deceitful and cruel one perished.

Still, hadn't Lara herself been slaughtered emotionally by her Father? Could any crime be worth that? And what crime had she committed against him?

Hours later, when the oil in the lamps had burned to the core, pastries had run out, noone could possible drink another drop of coffee, and the araq pans were empty, Hussain lead Lara through the sleepy camp into a slightly smaller tent with two 'rooms' separated by a thick canvas somehow anchored onto the ground. Hussain gave Lara several blankets, spread her a mattress, made sure she had some hot water, and retired to his own side.

First Lara just sat onto the mattress, took off her boots, crinkled her nose at her sweaty feet, and then washed her face, hands and feet after relieving her bloated bladder behind a lonely bush off the campsite. Then she stripped off her regular clothes underneath the gallabia, and almost failed to notice Hussain had supplied her another gallabia as well – a paper-thin white one. She changed clothes completely, thankful for the fresh water and clean clothes.

She wasn't on her own and for a change it felt quite good. She wondered what it was like being looked after like this on a daily basis. Dull but secure, most likely. Could she live like that? Not in a million years. But could a Westerner mold his or her own way of living here amongst the Sirhan with regard to the rules of courtesy but not submitting to certain traditions concerning male and female roles? She did not know.

She laid down onto the mattress, buried herself under the thick, woolly blankets and closed her eyes. Sleep, it seemed, was still far way.

After hours of tossing and turning Lara decided she could not sleep. She felt restless, as though something was still missing and she could not make out what it was exactly. She was more than used to not sleeping in her own bed, which seemed to be quite an important factor for some people but not her. She had discovered she could sleep anywhere. Usually, while working, she either did not sleep at all if the situation called for alertness, or slept well.

This was different. There was too much in her mind and she yearned with her very being for something to intrude in this turmoil.

She gave up trying to will herself to sleep, tossed and turned for a last hopeless round, and got up, trying to move quietly so she would not wake anyone.

She walked to the entrance. The door fabric was half-open, the sides flapping in the wind. Lara gazed out into darkness.

The desert called out to her. It was as though she could sense millions of life forms, tiny little flickering lives, rays of light from the moon that illuminated the scene from the cloudless sky. Distant trees took eerie shapes, shadows shifted.

The wind was cold but not bitter. The hem of Lara's dress moved like a ghost in the breeze, the soft touch of it reminding that she wore nothing underneath the almost transparent garment.

It was incredible how many stars could be seen when city lights did not interfere. The sky was different everywhere. In Egypt it was high, almost unfriendly, and the stars patterned in the shape of ancient gods. Home in England the sky was a depressing sight – it drooped low, throwing down rain, sleet and whatever it came up with.

Here it had no personality, just a vast, endless veil of darkness and light. It seemed as if one looked carefully enough, one could see beyond it to some forgotten mystery, to long-lost secrets.

Lara closed her eyes. This was where she felt alive. Alive and breathing. Not tied up by expectations, professional relationships and endless, pretentious small talk that always replaced more crucial matters.

This was all. All there really was to it.

Suddenly, like due to some sixth sense or premonition, she realized someone was standing behind her. She did not move, did not turn around for there was nothing to be wary of.

_Funny,_ she thought, _All my life I've been afraid that one day someone would be able to creep up on me._

A soft hand touched her arm. She closed her eyes. The touch traced her arm down to her hand, slowly trailing a line on her palm and then letting go. Gently, like the cool air.

Lara shivered in the wind – or was it from something else?

She tried to observe her thoughts from afar. She had not felt like this for years. Her heart began to pound, blood rushed in her veins. Her whole being was slowly beginning to ache out for something she did not fully understand, only sense. She needed this. Wanted this. As though it was the only water that could kill the flame of confusion and pain inside her.

A voice in her head asked: "Why?"

Another replied: "Why not?"

Suddenly there was a choreography. It had not been rehearsed, just an imprinted course of actions that came from so deep neither of them recognized its source. Lara turned, and two bodies snaked around each other and melted into one. Lara's hands found a place created by some unknown force just for her, at the small of his back.

Hussain closed Lara's plait inside his palm and slowly pulled the leather string off, releasing her sweaty brown locks.

Then she pushed him slightly away from her body, and kissed him. She did not know how long their lips were pressed, unmoving. It felt as though eternity had passed in a second.

She was so completely present, and in another sense, utterly gone. There was no Lara Croft, just an empty shell of sighs, and a pounding heart.

His hands travelled higher, bringing her close. Lara buried her face in his chest, the scent intoxicating her like nothing had before.

Slowly, never letting go, sharing the tiniest of touches between lips, they made their way to Lara's mattress, and lay down side to side.

For a split second Lara prepared for the moment he'd see her, truly see her, her scars, burns and old wounds, and discard her like a dusty bone. But somehow everything she felt inside told her he could see beyond her, beyond this bruised body and weary mind.

Neither could tell how their garments simply seemed to disappear – neither could tell when or where they had been discarded. He covered her shivering body with his, and his weight took Lara even further away than she'd been.

_I'm not here. I'm gone._

He trailed a scar under her left breast and to Lara it felt as though the old mark of injury disappeared as his finger made its silent journey across her tingling skin. It was as though the scar had moved from her body into her mind, turning slowly into an old, fading memory.

His slightest touch – she could no longer tell exactly where his hands or lips were, every little touch spread over her entire skin like electricity – his slightest touch made her cry for release, as though she was something infinite trapped inside a coffin of flesh and blood. Slowly, she joined his movements.

She could no longer comprehend the concept of time. It was right there, right then, he was under her skin, inside her body, in her heart, filling her very being, turning her dust-dried body into a heavenly creature of fire and water.

_I'm gone._


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

Part IIIWhere The Heart Moves The Stones

Lara slept dreamlessly. She was exhausted, overwhelmed with herself, with everything. When morning came she slowly, carefully returned to consciousness, but did not dare to open her eyes immediately.

She made an inventory of her surroundings. She could feel the soft, woolly bedcover on top of her. Then she registered the pair of strong arms holding her around the chest and waist, and silenced a sudden desire to run. She wasn't in a hurry, even though some part of her seemed to think so and her danger sense was confused and overload.

Her eyes flew open. She wasn't really used to waking up like this.

The wall fabric of the tent was flapping in a dry wind that raised clouds of dust on the floor. Bells of brass tingled somewhere.

Lara stifled a laugh. _This is just so corny. I was supposed to be working and instead I'm lying on a mattress with.._

She turned her head to face Hussain and almost flinched away when she was suddenly staring into his eyes. She had not realized he was awake.

He smiled friendly – not grinning, just an honest smile. "Morning, Lara," he commented. He did not move, did not release Lara from his circled arms.

Lara didn't reply. She had two options. Either she left now and regarded this as just one odd night of fun, nothing important. Or she could lie there for just a few moments more, just until her blisters stopped hurting due to sudden movement.

Lara closed her eyes. Whatever she would have to tell him, it could wait for a minute more.

Lara got up an hour later. She collected her things, not that there were that many. Hussain had headed for the horse fences with a promise to return in a moment. Perhaps he was giving her some privacy.

When she came across the blue dress Hussain's sister had given her she hesitated. If she left now and did not return it would not feel proper to take the dress. She stroked the soft fabric in confusion, and then decided to leave it on the bed.

Should she just leave?

If she had the faintest of suspicions that Hussain was expecting this to lead to something, she would've run off screaming. Not that she could know for certain, but nothing had indicated that this man expected anything from her.

It was as though things had just happened.

_Nothing just happens, girl. _

Lara stepped out of the tent, peered in for second to make sure she had left everything in a good order, and then walked to the horse fences. She felt like walking and decided to decline if he offered her a horse.

Hussain was helping a young boy open the wooden gate when Lara walked to the area from behind the larger tents. She paused in the open area before the fences to finally steal a good look at him.

Hussain looked her age, perhaps with a few years' advantage on her. He looked distinctly arab, with dark brows and dark hair flowing free. He was not traditionally handsome but a little rough-looking. He did not look like a bandit despite his ungroomed appearance, instead he held the contemplative, peaceful appearance of a man who has made many decisions, even painful ones.

She could not comprehend why so many things in Hussain made her feel as though he was a lot like herself. Nothing about him felt unfamiliar or exotic.

The previous nights she'd met Hussain's male relatives who were approximately his age. They felt so much more childish with their loud voices, jokes and games. They'd begged Lara to teach them some English dances and she'd declined, wanting to sit beside Hussain instead. His presence calmed her because he did not require her undivided attention the whole time and did not become offended when she just sat silently.

How different he was from most men Lara had been with – many had been arrogant rogue-types who'd considered her a worthy opponent and had relentlessly tried to get inside her head after first gaining access to other parts of her.

On the other hand it was strange how his relatives seemed to give Hussain quite a lot of space. He did not provoke the usual hassle when he spoke or danced. He was treated courteously but in Lara's opinion slightly ignored.

Lara approached the fence, unsure what to say and hoping the appropriate words would just pop out of her mouth. That would've been very unlikely, though, as she had no idea what she ought to do or why.

He greeted her with a wave of his hand and a smile and joined her.

"You're going to the tomb, then?" he asked benevolently as though he was assuming this was where she would no doubt say farewell for good. Or perhaps he still had absolutely no expectations.

"I do have to work," Lara said, trying not to sound overtly apologetic.

"Will I see you later?"

It was the first time Lara had heard him choose his words so carefully.

Lara stood on the lowest wooden transom of the fence and gazed into the desert. Distant cliffs shone coldly in golden morning sunlight.

Then she faced him. "I don't know. I honestly don't. There's just so much going on- " _In my life,_ she almost added, but decided she did not wish to make it sound like an excuse, "So much I have to do. I'll probably have to be heading back to England in a few days when I've checked that last site on my map."

Hussain nodded and seemed strangely unaffected by her words. Either he was so certain of himself he thought she would return anyway, or he was better than average at lettings things slip between his fingers.

Lara left.

She found her campsite after three hours or walking after absent-mindedly straying off the mountaineos path that lead to the outskirts of Petra.

It looked so lonely.

Her sleeping bag, mattress and cans of foods lay neatly stacked against a tomb wall.

Ropes along with other climbing gear lay neatly stacked on a rock.

Lara closed her eyes. _I don't want to be here anymore._

What was even more alarming was that she couldn't care less for what she would probably find in the last storage chamber in the ruins.

_How long will I continue this? I'm acting as though I'm chasing for the ultimate discovery that will solve all my problems. But none of this can. This is history. History can't solve present-day troubles._

She slumped down onto her sleeping bag. Light was plentiful in the tomb. She really didn't feel like lacing her boots tight and heading out in the midst of the hoardes of tourists just yet.

After checking the last site, what then?

She couldn't say returning to England held much allure. But staying was not a very realistic prospect either. _What would I do then? Become either a mistress or a good little Moslim wife? I doubt I'd be much good at either._

Did staying have to include Hussain at all?

_If he wasn't included in the picture, would I be considering it at all? Probably not._

Did she want him? Did she want to be with him?

Lara kicked a rock in frustration. She did not love him. Nor did she wish to spend her life with him.

But why did she feel like she needed him so much then?

Or did she really need him?

Feeling as though a stress-induced headache was on its way, Lara abandoned her dilemma and decided to brush up on her notes. She dug out the material from her backpack, and in addition found a book she'd unintentionally carried with her – she'd meant to leave it in her hotel room for bedtime reading as it did not deal with Petra. She leafed through it.

It was an old volume on Christian symbolics. She opened a page she'd marked as good reference material.

"The rose is the holiest of all flowers. The flower of the Virgin Mary, it symbolizes above all love in its many forms. Mary is said to be the mistress of seven roses. If white they symbolize her seven joys including the birth of Christ and the appearance of the angel Gabriel. Seven red roses would signify her seven great moments of pain. The rose is a symbol of heavenly joy and paradise – saints have been told to have had visions of paradise including blooming roses. Early Christians despised the rose due to the fact that to the Romans the rose had also had much significance as a the symbol of Afrodite. They celebrate the rose in their _rosalia_ feasts, a tradition which has in part survived in Italy. The rose was also closely related to Dionysos as it was believed that roses would keep a drunken man from revealing his secrets. This belief was imported into Christianity: confession booth decorations included roses and everything that was said would be said "_sub rosa"_, 'under the rose', meaning that it would stay between the two conversants."

"Red roses also symbolize heavenly love, depicting the blood of Christ as he hung on the cross. Dante calls this love _"rosa candida"_ in his Divine Comedy. On the other hand, troubadours in Medieval times used red roses as the purest symbol of earthly love ande desire. White roses depict purity, and it some cultures, death. Many esoteric Christian sects give great value to the flower, the Rosicrucians being the most prominent example. The fact that roses have spikes has been considered to be a metaphor of life."

Nothing about _rosa mystica_. Lara closed the book. It did not seem this would aid her much after all.

She decided to check out the last site. It wasn't as though she had anything better to do.

She walked past the propylaea steps, and disappeared behind the ruined west wall of the Nymphaeum. In ancient times it had housed a large reflection pool dedicated to water spirits, Nymphs, which had been important deities in Nabataean mythology. Lara recalled reading an essay once which had claimed that the primary reason the Nabataeans had made human sacrifices was to create Nymphs to serve them as guides in the spiritual world. It was true that the Nabataeans had possibly sacrificed humans by throwing them off the high rock faces that were omnipresent in the area, but only bones that were belonged to young males had been found. Nymphs had been thought to be female.

Lara had hiked up to the Jebel Umm-al-Biara, "Mother of Cisterns", a large hill quite near the city ruins and inspected the altar on top. Attached to it was a slant of rock that lead to the edge of a gorge. It gave her chills.

Behind the walls she found a short paved passage which ended soon – the remains of an ancient pathway.

Making sure noone had followed her she began following the pathway. After a kilometre or so it lead up on top of the Garden tomb, and down a winding series of roughlöy carved stone steps into an inconspicuous ravine. To Lara this seemed promising – the previous sites she had inspected had somehow seemed too out in the open.

She felt a little better now. More focused. Her mind was far from being clear, but she felt as though she'd finally at least gotten used to the haze she'd been walking in for the past week. Not that it was a particularly good thing.

The steps ended abruptly. Jordan was no stranger to earthquakes, and a quake was a likely reason to the pathway's demise. The path disappeared into a wide opening in the rocks – an uninviting-looking black maw. Broken pillars had fallen onto the gaping hole, forming an almost unpassable entrance. Lara dug out her flashlight from her backpack and pointed it into the darkness. A flock of sparrow-looking birds flew out, startling her. It was no wonder they'd been there – crevices and tombs made excellent nesting places.

The drop to the floor was about ten metres. Lara was certain there had been a staircase to the bottom. She could see broken columns and chunks or stone on the sandy bottom of the maw – probably remains of the steps. Lara dug out her rope and tied it carefully onto a broken pillar which lay across the opening and tied it around her waist. She'd chosen her thickest rope – it would be the easiest to pull herself up with. She grabbed the upper end of the rope, twisted her ankle around the slightly lower part, and began slowly lowering herself into the maw.

The rope slid in her hands, the rough surface of it cutting tiny wounds into her palms. Sunlight turned into echoing darkness as she descended.

After a minute of slow sliding she let go of the rope and dropped onto the floor.

The air smelled as dusty and old as everything else in Petra. It felt as though time had only passed somewhere above, outside this construction. Inside, it was still the age of the Nabataeans.

Lara lit three chemical torches and placed them in cracks in the rock walls. They lit most of the chamber in a eerie green glow.

She found a pile of bones, lying near a low entrance to a chamber with a dried-up well. The skull was pressed in on the back – probably due to a blow the owner had gotten into his or her back when he was still alive. A few metres off the pile of scattered bones lay a sword.

It would hold no interest to a collector as it was nearly through-rusted. Only a sharp net of metal remained of the handle. It had perhaps once been decorated with stones – there were round, empty spots near the handle where they could've been attached to. Now it was useless and looked as though it would crumble at the feintest touch.

It was not in its original place. There was a pressing in the sand near the bones exactly the shape of it. Maybe whoever had killed this man had inspected his sword, cut out the ornaments and discarded the weapon.

Perhaps the pile of bones had belonged to a guardian. That would speak of the place's importance.

Lara abandoned the sword and its wielder and walked deeped into the shadows, flaslight in her right hand.

There were large amphoras stacked near a wall, and the rest of the deeper part of the chamber was filled with shelves. Lara expected to find at least a scroll or two in the amphoras – important papyri finds had been made in Petra before, the most recent one in 1993 near the Byzantine church.

They were empty, as were the shelves save for a bird skeleton. Lara touched the delicate bones with her forefinger and felt a sudden wave of sadness overcome her.

She could not imagine a fate much more terrible than dying here, all alone. The guard had probably wanted to seek help after being assaulted, but decided he could not leave his post. The bird had perhaps got lost in the dark and had starved because it could not find any food down there. The maw should have provided some light, but it narrowed before opening into the chamber so that most of the underground area was pitch dark. There were sheaths for torches in the walls, but Lara could see no torches.

Now she herself was there. All alone. Would she be alone like that for the rest of her life? As alone as she'd always been? It was not just physical loneliness but mental as well. The feeling that there were not many people who would grieve her demise. Aunt Gillian, Jean, a few colleagues, but no close relatives.

_Is this about Father again?_

Lara turned around, gathered herself and began inspecting the rest of the area.

The well chamber was tiny, and the well was dry. Lara surveyed the bottom of it with her flashlight, and decided it wasn't worth the while climbing down as it was only a few metres deep and obviously empty.

Lara returned to the larger chamber, and ran her flashlight around, desperation creeping into her mind. It couldn't be empty! It just couldn't! A place so inaccessible was unlikely to have been emptied. Jordan had no serious history of grave-robbing, and when the Anglo-Swiss geographer Burckhardt in 1812 rediscovered Petra after hearing rumours of a lost city in the desert, a lot of artefacts had been found, undisturbed.

Lara's heart leapt when she found what she'd been looking for – a small opening near the chamber ceiling deep in the cavern with the shelves. She placed the flashlight between her teeth, jumped up, and vaulted into the small opening. It was so low she nearly slipped. Spiderwebs stuck in her hair as she pushed forward in the small tunnel. After several minutes of crawling and getting scrapes onto her knees she could drop down into a small room.

She lit another torch to aid her flashlight which had clanked onto the tunnel wall and was now flicking annoyingly.

She'd arrived in a barrell vault with the ceiling shaped like a cylinder, with almost Greek-style wall-paintings.

In a corner a large pile of rusty swords lay unorganized. Most of them were inconspicous, but the pile of glittering flakes on the floor wasn't.

Lara inspected the flakes. As far as she could tell they were real gold.

She stood up and began inspecting the murals after digging out her notes of the previous ones.

They did indeed form a story.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

First came copies of the engravings Lara had already seen. Then more scenes of war.

In the middle of the largest wall Lara found Cleopatra, this time passing glittering jewels and gold onto a pair of warriors. In the next pictures Lara could see what seemed to be large furnaces and metallic vessels usually associated with melting of iron. But these did not hold iron. Instead they held some sort of a liquid yellow substance. The following pictures showed swords and spears made of this yellow material.

Lara understood. Marc Anthony had tried to pull the wrong strings with Cleopatra's gold. For the Nabataeans it had been a time of animosities, and foreign trade was at a complete dryspell. Iron was not naturally found in the area, so it had to be imported. It trade routes were blocked by war, no gold could buy iron that simply could not be imported. It was not gold the Nabataeans had wanted but iron! They'd melted Anthony's treasures – the only available material - and made weapons.

Gold was not a particularly hard material, which made Lara wonder what had become of the soldiers who'd tried to fight their enemies' iron swords with their golden weapons.

They'd probably ended up like the chamber guard. And the Nabataean's enemies had probably found several ways to use the gold they'd gotten from their adversaries' weapons. Marc Anthony's gold was probably scattered all over the Mediterranean shores.

The swords that adorned the small cavern Lara stood in had probably served as a bad example, nothing more. This had likely been a armament storage which had stood empty after a grand defeat in battle.

Lara wondered what Cleopatra would've thought if she'd known how what sort of purposes her gold had served. It had not aided Anthony in his quest for glory, instead served as vessels of self-destruction in border disputes.

Lara sat down, inspecting the crumbling metal of a sword. The leaves of gold that had covered the handle were probably the last pieces of gold from Anthony's bribes and was such a small amount that it could only be used as a decoration.

Lara sighed. There was nothing for her here.

The shut her flashlight to spare the batteries, then climbed back into the main caverns.

She felt anxious to see sunlight again.

When she'd climbed back up Lara sat down onto a rock to massage her tender arm muscles, strained from the heavy climb.

_So this was a complete waste of time._

Or had it really been so? She'd gotten to see Petra. Gotten some time to think about things – even though everything seemed to become more and more complicated the more she tried to make any sense of it.

Still, finding out that there was nothing left to be discovered was never fun. She had found out what happened to Anthony's bribes, which was quite a meaningful archaeological mystery solved, but Lara liked concrete results, something she could hold in her hands.

Now that the Petra file was closed she was again faced with options, none of which seemed particularly inviting.

Oh how she would have liked to reschedule this monologue, but she knew sitting around on red rocks was only postponing the inevitable.

She was falling in love with Jordan, despite the fact that the time for her visit was not the best possible in terms of her state of mind.

Lara did not want to go to the funeral. "Did not want" was more of an understatement, really. As though the occasion itself would not be awful enough, the service would probably be attended by a lot of people Lara thought she would never again have to face. Relatives. Family friends of her parents – upper-class socialites who comprehended Lara's choices even less then her father had. What would her role be in the whole thing? She could not imagine a deeper humiliation – being forced to face the stares of all those people who knew she was there only because she had to, not because she wished to bid farewell to a loved one.

She could stay there and never see the rain-battered, gray streets of London again. She could have a life of intrigue and excitement, one many would choose without batting their eyelids. Live a life free of modern burdens.

A life with Hussain. No strings attached. But still, there would be a connection of some sorts. He couldn't keep her as a lover could he? Not without the whole family expecting a marriage. And they could not keep the affair hidden either.

_Was_ it even an affair?

She needed him but did not love him. Simple as that. Sex had been an added bonus but not what she'd come looking. She'd come in search of answers, not a quick pleasure in a freezing tent.

This was part of her life, this traveling and discovering. But it was not all of it.

Suddenly Lara realized that the matter of her Father would have to be solved sooner or later. She could not life the rest of her life without some sort of a quid pro quo with him. If it meant empty words beside an open grave, so be it. Their relationship needed to make some sort of a turn.

Lara did not consider herself a very religious person. She did not really believe in a concrete heaven and hell and neither did she think that the living could contact the dead. But still, Lara had seen things that crossed the line between supernatural and natural, and could not deny that a person who died might not completely leave. Some sort of a premonition, a shadow could remain.

She believed there was some sort of a connection between people who either loved or hated each other deeply. And she had to know which of these strong emotions was causing the fact that memories of her Father would not leave her alone until she received some sort of closure.

She would have to return to England. She would have to bury her father. She would have to hear his will being read.

She would have to face the question: was he ever proud of her or had he truly abandoned her?

For blood was thicker than water and nothing less than bloodbonds would drag her back to Surrey.

_They're only feelings. They can't crush me physically,_ she assured herself. Even is she felt like collapsing, it was only from the inside.

_Still, give me a collapsing temple anyday._

But before she could book a flight to Heathrow, another matter required her attention. Hussain.

Lara gathered her things from the tomb she'd camped in, relieved that she wouldn't have to spend another minute in the place. She decided to ask Hussain for a horse to ride into the Siq entrance, determined to beg if she had to.

By five o'clock in the afternoon she'd emptied the tomb and placed her backpack below the architrave leaning into a pillar.

The she changed into a long-sleeved shirt and jeans and hiked down to the valley floor, abandoning the familiar route she had used several times and instead opted for one that required slightly more climbing.

She arrived at the camp at sunset. Noone was outside, so she walked to Hussain's tent.

He was eating alone, which seemed peculiar. Lara walked in and knelt down beside him. His eyes lit up when he noticed her.

"Lara! Did you found what you were looking for?"

Lara pushed a sweaty lock of hair behind her ear. "Yes and no. The place was empty. It seemed the gold had been used for weaponry."

"I'm sorry," Hussain said and it sounded very genuine. Lara didn't know whether she should say it was nothing or begin complaining about everything.

Suddenly anger boiled up inside Lara. _Why the hell does this have to happen to me! I know how to do my job, but in facing this sort of things I'm totally lost!_

She stood up, fists clenched.

Hussain pushed his plate aside. "Lara, what's wrong? And don't say it's nothing. Ever since I came to talk to you on the jebel you've seemed like there's so much on your mind, that it's overwhelming you to a point where you can't even grasp what's happening. As a desperate solution you just go with anything."

Lara stared at him. "So you're saying I just tagged along when you decided I was attractive?"

Hussain gave her a strange look. "Come on, Lara, this isn't about that and you know it. You're absent, distant."

"How do you know I'm not like that with all of my one-night stands?" she spat out.

The second the words had left her mouth she regretted them. He'd been so... kind. So undemanding. It had seemed quite clear in some way right from the beginning that this would not lead into a long relationship.

This was beyond relationships. Just an encounter in the desert.

She'd needed this.

Hussain stood up and touched Lara's arm. She half expected to feel like slapping him but didn't. There was nothing sexual about his touch.

Lara gazed up and faced him. "Why aren't you eating with the others?"

"Where is your family, Lara? You did not answer me when I asked."

It felt like a tie-in, two questions which noone wanted to answer.

Lara bit her lip. She owed him an answer. She felt guilty, as though she'd taken something from him and given nothing in exchange. There was something strange about Hussain, an aura of giving in. This was the first time he'd confronted her in any way.

Lara sat down onto the thick, soft carpets and circled her finger on the sand that had gathered between the threads.

Hussain sat down beside her.

"I have to return to England for my Father's funeral. And, I have another job which is going nowhere – I have no idea where to start, and the subject is something I'm very much unfamiliar with. Why would anyone think I'd want to go chasing bloody roses around! It's not as though anyone's offered me any more important work, and it's my Aunt who has asked for this, but it's just that—That--" Lara's voice broke.

She did not cry. There were no tears left. She simply couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. She leaned onto her palms on the carpet, unwilling to look at Hussain.

Great. On top of all she was now burdening him with her troubles.

Lara couldn't understand how he could have so much interest in her. Why he – or onyone – would be willing to listen to her. Anyone who wasn't either forced on gunpoint or a relative of hers and thus bound by empty obligation.

He was acting like a relative. Suddenly Lara felt like her throat was filled with sand. Was she acting and feeling like this because he was acting like her Father never had?

_How bloody Freudian. If he touches me now he's dead._

He did. And Lara could not raise a finger against it. He kissed her, held her wrists so she could not push him away, and she had no desire to do so. She drained her soul out into the kisses as though he could make everything go away.

He couldn't, that was certain. But maybe it had been enough for her sanity to get something else to think about even if it wasn't for any longer than a few minutes at a time. Just a distraction to keep her from shattering to pieces.

But if he had helped her, what could she possibly do for him? Lara wasn't one to leave a debt unpaid.

Their lips finally separated. Lara leaned back. "You didn't answer my question," she reminded quietly, "But you don't really have to. Instead you could tell me what you studied."

He took a deep breath and Lara wondered why this seemed like something he didn't want to discuss.

"Theology."

Lara smiled. "I didn't know one could study Islam in Toronto."

He looked ever so slightly annoyed. "I am not a Moslim, Lara."

She looked suspicious. "You're not? I've never heard of Christian bedouin clans before."

He spread his hands. "That is because there aren't any. I studied the _sharia_ for two years in Amman, and met a Canadian woman named Rachel. She was a devout Catholic and I got interested. We split up – my Father obviously did not approve of her, but I had began to read about Christianity and decided to turn. So I abandoned the _umma_ and became a Catholic. At this point my Father gave me two choices. Either I left for good or returned to Islam and to this life."

Lara was stunned. "So you went to Toronto to study."

He smiled sadly. "I did. I tried contacting Rachel again, but it just didn't work. I was at that point considering becoming a priest, but that's when my brother died."

Lara did not reply, just shifted her position on the carpet, urging him to go on.

"My Father summoned me home. He wants his family around like every _bedu_, and decided it was not worth it to keep me away. With my brother he'd seen what too much Islam can do."

Lara did not smile. "Why on Earth did you agree to come back?"

"It wasn't easy being in Canada. I doubt I'd ever really have become a priest. This is where I was born. It would've been difficult there without my family."

"Couldn't you have met someone?" Lara crossed her arms. She would not have made a similar choice.

"I meant my family, Lara. Not a wife and children but family."

Lara turned away. Hussain had made a choice she would never have. If her Father had wanted a new chance, she wouldn't have granted it.

But maybe she should have. Her problem was that a chance like that had never been offered to her. Or had it? According to Aunt Gillian everytime her Father had been in touch with Gillian he'd asked about Lara.

Had he been trying to give her a chance and she had just not noticed due to the anger she'd carried in her for a decade?

And had her Father at some point given up? Given up and become enraged at her stubbornness? Or simply given up, saddened by her permanent absence?

Lara had a grim guess she would soon find out.

Hussain noticed her sour mood and decided to change the subject. "What is this rose you mentioned?"

Lara laughed bitterly. "Don't tell me you know anything about roses. That would be just too bloody creepy."

"Not about roses, no, but if it has anything to do with theology I might be able to help."

Lara thought about it for a second. "Alright then. I'm looking for a religious symbol called the _rosa mystica_. It might be a rose variety but more likely it's just a symbol. I've found a lot of references to different meanings of the rose in Christian symbolicism, but there are so many of them I don't know where to begin."

Hussain thought for a moment. "I'm no expert, but we did have a professor who'd done some extensive studying on botanical symbols. He emphasized the rose in a way that's quite uncommon – as the symbol of undying love. Love that could defeat death, that did not disappear in death. This dated back to the legend of Adonis and Sfrodite. According to the story the first roses grew from his spilled blood."

Lara looked puzzled. "In some Christian legends the first roses grew from Christ's blood that had been shed as he hung on the cross. Could this have been derived from the Roman legend?"

Hussain shrugged. "I really couldn't say. Nevertheless, the rose symbolizes love that does not disappear in death or during hardships in life."

"What about the colours of roses? Red is obvious, but what about yellow and white?"

"Yellow, associated with the Virgin Mary, stands for heavenly light. White, which in some cultures is the colour of death, is in Christianity associated with purity, joy and forgiveness. White is the colour of a union – one reason why wedding gowns are white. It's the colour of awareness and life."

Lara nodded. This was all good and well, but she was still at point blank. Maybe she should just admit to Gillian she was completely lost with flowers and that they should probably contact someone else.

"White is often combined with violet, which is the colour of regret and expectation. This is really abstract, I know. That's why I'd like to recommend a place to you. A place you could visit in Amman if your schedule permits."

"I'm sure I can arrange something," Lara muttered.

"There is a small church on Abu Baker El Saddeeq street dedeicated to the Virgin Mary. It's from Byzantine times. Go there."

"Thanks for the tip," Lara sighed, trying not to sound sceptical. "I'm sorry –" she suddenly began, "—about... All this."

"Why are you apologizing to me?" Hussain asked, and Lara did not have an answer. She turned to leave.

"Fursa sa'ida, Lara," he said to her. 'Thank you for letting me to get to know you.' It was a common thing to say to a departing visitor, but here it served as a joke.

She felt a smile creep onto her face. "You're something, you know that?" She laughed.

"You are something, too, Lara," he replied in mock courtesy.

Out of the blue, she walked back and pressed her lips briefly onto his. She expected to feel the usual melange of regret and sadness that always came when saying goodbyes, but now she was feeling strangely lifted. "Kul sana wa intum bi-kheer," she whispered, and disappeared out of the doorway.

'I wish you well for the coming year'. Perhaps they would meet again, perhaps not.

_That went quite well. The only thing I know for certain is that the funeral won't._


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

Back in Amman Lara experienced the already familiar feeling of walking into a whole different era when she entered the small church Hussain had directed her to. Outside the busy side streets of Amman boomed with Friday frenzy – the fifth day of the Western week was a secular holiday in the country.

She'd left Petra early that morning after spending a night at her hotel. She had decided she needed one night of steady sleep alone without hassle before she hit the road again.

Not that she'd slept very well. The serenity she'd felt when leaving Hussain soon evaporated and anxiety had taken its place again. She'd tossed and turned the whole night and at the end went for a run when she felt the room walls began to close in on her.

She'd made good time in driving to Amman. She'd returned her rental car and rented a taxi for the day. Her flight would leave in four hours – she'd booked a night one because after running around the whole day she might be able to sleep in the plane. Not that this reasoning had worked before.

The small, empty church provided a moment of solitude she desperately needed.

It had obviously not been used for at least a century. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, statues were broken and pews nonexistant, but the murals and mosaics were stunning.

Lara wandered along the main nave into the altar area. On the altar stood a peculiar cross – no crucifix but just an iron cross. It was a delicate thing, almost paper-thin, and a rose ornament surrounded the points. A very thorny rose ornament.

She circled around the _apse_ – altar area in Byzantine churches, always oriented towards the east. She snuck behind the ruined iconostasis, but the back area was empty.

In the north part of the church she found an _exedra_ – a lineof columns near a wall with a narrow bench where worshipers could sit.

The wall included a frieze of darkened marble. Lara sat down on the bench to observe it.

The first scene showed men and women in prayer before Christ hanging on the cross. Roses grew around it and from it, and the crown Christ wore was not made of thorns but roses.

The second one depicted the cave where the Christ's body had been taken to, with the stone from the entrance moved aside with roses growing near the entrance. It seemed almost as though the roses had grown so strongly that it had been them who had pushed aside the heavy boulder. This fit well with what Hussain had said about death and love tangled into the rose's meaning.

The last one showed what seemed a monastery on a mountain – probably one of the numerous _jebel_ monasteries found in the Middle East. Which one it was could not be identified. It was a combination of two pictures, the first showing an aerial view identifying the building as a monastery, and the second one only showed a wall of the building.

Against the wall stood a bush of roses, branching themselves into the heavens. Lara wished the frieze had been a mural instead so she could've identified a colour for the flowers.

The Byzantine church had emphasized an ascetically mystical theology, into which roses fit very well. Church architecture and iconography were vessels for a spiritual connection and they were to depict the Christ's role as a saviour and also illustrate the Virgin Mary and the saints in connection to this role. Monasteries had been a vital part of the church, perhaps even more so than in the Roman Catholic world, above all the mountain of Athos which still served as a spiritual centre for the Greek Catholic church.

It was only then she noticed the inscriptions beneath the frieze. It was easily readable Greek and the writing was nearly intact. Lara had not brushed up on her Greek for awhile, but after a few minutes she had an approximate translation.

The writing beneath the image of Christ on the cross read: "Wife, look at your son. He has come to see this suffering. And of this suffering he shall teach. He shall teach love."

It sounded strange at first. But when Lara racked her brain she could recall a short passage from the Bible about of the crucification. The Christ had said the first phrase to his mother who'd come to watch the execution. It was a reference to one of the younger disciples, whom the Christ's mother then had adopted. The last two phrases were unfamiliar to Lara – perhaps they were from some apocryphic book – one of the scripts that had been turned down from the original version of the Bible.

The inscription below the next scripture only included one simple phrase: "And love shall set you free."

The third one Made Lara's eyes light.

It was the answer she'd been looking for, in a way. It said "And this loveshall grow on every churchyard". Dante had called heavenly love _rosa candida_. Could _rosa mystica_ then be this love beyond death, a love that grew on every churchyard in the form of a rose? There was no other plausible answer she could come up with.

Suddenly it felt so clear. _Rosa mystica _was any rose that grew on a churchyard.

"For the fifteenth time, I have a permit! Call the bloody embassy, they'll contact British authorities. Look, I don't have time for this – I have to be somewhere tomorrow. And I'm running out of patience rapidly," Lara steeled her tone and stood up from the uncomfortable airport chair she'd been indicated while a group of alarmed flight attendants along with several clerks tried to find out why she had a functioning handgun in her suitcase. She'd waved her permit around and given them several numbers to call, but they were too busy trying to decide whether she was a terrorist or not to bother listening to her reasoning.

Lara had a grim guess that had she been flying British Airways instead this would not have happened.

They'd wanted to do a strip search. She'd quickly discouraged them, which had lead to the security guys being called. It had taken Lara all her persuasive powers to ensure that she was at the moment unarmed and not dangerous and that they should first check her permits before throwing her into a cell.

It was just ten minutes before her flight would leave. Missing it would mean waiting eleven hours, a prospect which in Lara's current state of mind seemed catastrophic.

She was gently pushed back down. She grimaced at the taller security guard.

When there were three minutes left before her flight would take off one of the stewardesses returned. Lara jumped up before the guards could stop her. "Look, I just want to get home. Forget the bag, you can have it as long as you let me on that bloody flight!"

The woman gave her an apologetic smile. "Please calm down, Miss Croft. I faxed your permit to the customs at Heathrow and they assured me it is genuine. If you could please follow me we can now finish boarding."

"Thank God." Lara jogged after her and the shorter security guard followed them carrying Lara's purse which he had confiscated.

The stewardess lead her quickly to her seat and Lara could feel the gazes of the other passengers on her back. It was clear who had been the reason for the delay.

Lara stumbled along the aisle. Her legs felt heavy and cold, like she was heaving around lumps of ice. Her head pounded and her mouth felt dry. She must've been hungry for she had not eaten in twelve hours, but felt nauseous.

When she nearly lost her balance a steward hurried along to help her into her seat. He looked worried as he buckled her belt. "Can I get you something, Miss?"

Lara massaged her temples. She felt like a wreck. All the stress had transformed into indifference and exhaustion like no other she had ever felt. She wondered when she'd feel alright again.

But something told her that could not happen before the funeral. It was unusual for her to react to stress this way. Usually her mind worked separately from her body, and her body had usually served its master without complaints.

"An aspirin would be nice." _And a whisky_, she added in her mind. Perhaps she could ask for this from another attendant as they were probably not allowed to serve both medicine and alcohol to a single customer.

On the other hand, what was the harm in trying? "And could you get me a Glenlivet on the rocks, please?"

To Lara's surprise his smile melted into an apologetic face. "I'm sorry, Miss, we're out of Livet. But would you like some wine?"

Lara waved her hand when she had to close her eyes due to seeing black dots and nothing else. "Sure, whatever you've got."

She got her pill and glass of sour white wine soon. She gulped the medicine down, not expecting much of an effect. She drank the rest of the wine as though it was a glass of water. Then she gazed out of the window into the night until the sight began accelerating the headache again. She held the empty glass in her fingers, noticing that they trembled as though after physical strain.

No matter how hard she willed herself to calm down, the fact that she was approaching England with every passing minute made her feel increasingly horrible.

_I hate you, Father, for still doing this to me._


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

Part IVCome to dust

Lara pushed the speed limit as she drove her Aston Martin through central London. After a few minutes of circling around she found a suitably located parking square near her destination, the Westminster Abbey. She wanted to be early, to get in before the crowd. Besides, she wanted to speak to Aunt Gillian before the hassle began.

They'd spoken on the phone several times after she'd returned from Jordan. They'd kept strictly to business – the funeral arrangements. Gillian had inquired how Lara was feeling but she'd dismissed the question brusquely by changing the subject. In her own opinion Lara had been acting on autopilot since she'd touched her native soil, training and working, occupying herself while waiting for the whole ordeal to be over.

She walked through the gates onto the immaculate lawn before the church doors. She wore a simple, long, black skirt with a matching black blazer, low black heels and a wide-brimmed black hat. She detested wearing black for it signaled loving mourning, but had not come up with a more suitable colour. She also wore her sunglasses, amused at her own feeble attempt at masquerading herself. They'd all recognize her no matter what she wore. They would all know who she was.

In the churchyard stood a minister who walked up to Lara. "Welcome. Are you here for the service of Lord Henshingly Croft?" he inquired in a pleasant tone.

Lara simply nodded.

"Then may I offer my condolences on this sad day. Are you a close relative?"

Lara bit her lip. "Relative, yes." _Close – can't really say that._ "I would like to speak to Gillian Havers, if she has arrived."

The minister nodded. "Please, follow me."

He lead her through the doors into the church.

Candles burned and the organ player was practicing his piece – Lara recognized it to be a passage from Fauré's requiem. She herself would not have chosen the particular piece.

On a dais in the middle of the vast main hall stood a sizeable reddish wooden coffin. On the exact same spot Lara hazily recalled her Mother's casket to have stood when she was a little girl. She'd died of cancer. The funeral had been quite a public event. Her mother had engaged in many charity projects and had plenty of friends. Many of Lara's father's business associates and colleagues from the parliament had also attended. Many of them would without doubt attend this service as well.

Lara swallowed and quickened her pace to keep up with the minister.

They found Gillian in the vestry, cutting off the ends of a large bouquet of red roses.

Lara suddenly realized she had not ordered any flowers. Another disaster to add to her list. Another thing to regret.

Gillian left the flowers on the table when she noticed Lara. She gave her a kiss on the cheek, and gently pulled off Lara's sunglasses. "You can't wear those," she gently fussed.

Lara grabbed them back, annoyed. "I can do what I bloody want." She did not put the glasses back on, though.

The priest shot her an unapproving glance and left them.

"Could you help me with these?" Gillian passed her a pair of scissors and they set to work on some lilies. "Could you also please take care that everyone finds a setting?"

Playing valet sounded appalling. "I'm trying to be inconspicuous here. Maybe I should just stay out of the service and just come to the will reading."

Gillian shot her a stern glance. Sometimes her niece could just be stubborn beyond words. "You drove yourself here and that's saying something. Alright, you don't have to see to the seating, but you're not hiding behind a column either. You're sitting in the front with me."

Lara opened her mouth to argue but realized it would've been in vain. She heard voices from the grand church hall – the first wave of guests had arrived.

They finished cutting the flowers for Gillian's arrangement – a beautiful combination of dark red roses, white lilies and ivy.

Lara was glad her Aunt had not inquired about her nonexistant flowers.

Gillian left for the entrance hall to greet some friends and Lara decided to linger behind in the vestry. She walked around, gazed out of the window, feeling like a fugitive. She'd have to go out sooner or later.

She straightened her hat, took a quick peek from the doorway into the church, and when she saw Gillian had taken her designated seat beside the coffin Lara quickly walked to the area to join her.

A few heads turned at the sight of her and she could hear muttered words which turned into a negative-toned conversation when she was almost out of hearing range.

She sat down beside Gillian, staring at the coffin.

Suddenly she turned to her Aunt. "I want to see him," she said.

Gillian looked at her, puzzled. "You could have contacted the undertakers and asked to see him in their premises. We can't open the casket now, it's—"

Lara stood up. It was five minutes before the service would begin. Most of the mourners had already arrived, and a few gazes were locked onto Lara. Even more did so when she raised her voice. "I want to see him!"

Gillian grabbed her arm and pulled her back down onto her seat. "Lara, _sit down._ If you want to see him it will have to happen after the service."

Lara turned in her seat to gaze around. To her it seemed everyone was looking at her. Her eyes narrowed. What right did they have to stare at her?

Then she turned to face the casket again. It was almost invisible beneath a sea of flowers. Expensive orchid arrangements competed with more mundane bouquets.

The church was full up to the Poets' corner. One couldn't see much from there, but still the area was as packed as the rest of the church.

It made Lara wonder how such a man as her Father could have gathered such a crowd. When she herself died the service could be held in her living room and the small group of guests could still fit in fine.

But which did she want? A handful of genuine friends or a crowd of her Father's business associates who came to honour her even if they had no idea who she was?

The music began. Lara sat silently, gently squeezing the edges of her seat. She straightened her skirt, adjusted her hat, rearranged her hair, anything to keep her occupied.

She listened to the short service without really hearing the words.

At one point she stifled a laugh. The whole situation suddenly seemed so weird – a man stuck inside a box so that the crowd could sing depressing hymns. He was dead and long gone.

Lara closed her eyes.

She did not open them until Gillian gently nudged her. Lara could hear silent crying from somewhere nearby, probably some sensitive distant relative fallen for hysterics.

"It's time," Gillian whispered, and indicated that they should approach the casket.

Lara felt like running. She couldn't do this. "I'm not going," she whispered quickly back.

_I'm going mad,_ she thought. Suddenly she was certain that if she approached the coffin it would move. It would move because she wasn't supposed to be there, and it would move so that everyone would realize she was in the wrong place and then they'd tell her to leave.

Gillian grabbed her arm again. "Lara, come on."

Lara faced her stare and said slightly more loudly, "I'm _not_ going."

She'd thought she was only whispering slightly louder than before, but it came out in an almost yelling volume. If every person in the church had not yet been staring at her, now they were.

Gillian let go of her arm, grabbed her flowers and headed towards the altar.

Lara pulled her hat downwards on her head as though it could spare her from accusing stares.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

The crowd slowly dispersed from the church a good thirty minutes later. Gillian had not spoken to Lara since midservice when she'd gone to deliver her flowers. Lara had sensed she'd been angry with her.

But when they left their seats to walk out Gillian took her hand in hers. "Lara?"

"Mm-hmm?" she woke from her silent contemplation of a crack in the nearby wall.

"Do you still want to see him?" Gillian asked gently. After shrugging off the disorientation Lara noticed the already familiar minister standing nearby.

Lara shook her head quickly. "No, not really." She craned her neck to face the minister and forced out a smile. "That won't be necessary, thank you."

She stood up. Her legs felt stiff after sitting in one position for so long. She glanzed one last time at the casket, feeling no desire to approach it. "Let's go then."

They walked out in silence.

The churchyard was packed with people who were chatting, some sharing handkerchiefs, some dealing out business card, and a few children playing behind the junipers.

When Lara was walking through the gates, adjusting her hat again, someone gently tapped her shoulder.

She turned and her mouth opened in suprise. The thought that he'd come to funeral had never even crossed her mind, even though it was quite obvious that he would...

"James Farringdon. Should've known. Are you here with your Father?" Lara inquired in a cool tone.

James Farringdon, son of Jonathan, Earl of Farringdon, had been Lara's Father's choice for her husband. As far-fetched as it sounded, it had been an actual arranged marriage, and the final stone that had destroyed the relationship between Lara and her Father.

James wasn't too bad as far as she could recall, but the life he led would've been the worst possible for her. So much had happened to her at that time, things that had made her realize marrying James Farringdon would probably mean the death of her, at least in an emotional sense.

"Yes. He's right over there, speaking to the Lord Chamberlain. It's been ages, Lara. How are you? Still working as an archaeologist?"

"Guilty as charged," Lara commented dryly, and made a mental note to escape the scene before the Earl joined them.

"And as far as I've heard you still haven't settled down with anyone special."

Lara measured him with her gaze. "Nor have you."

James' smile never faded. "Maybe we should both reconsider what happened back then. We got a bad start. We really aren't that different, Lara."

Lara stared at him. What a cliche. He was still after her, which proved that he had no idea who she was. "There is at least one little difference."

He looked suitably puzzled. "And what might that be?"

Lara smiled unkindly. "You could've lived that lie."

Every time she thought she could not feel more nervous, a new opportunity to test that theory appeared. Lara had to force herself through the doors into the notary's office where the reading of the will would be held.

It wasn't the crowds this time. Instead, it was the whole family tree all in person. Close and distant relatives who were more than familiar with how she'd allegedly tarnished the family name with her chosen lifestyle.

She decided for the arrogant approach and chose a seat near the notary's desk. It was a bad choice – she was under everyone's scrutiny.

Gillian sat down next to her with a mysterious smile that was slowly driving Lara mad. Did her Aunt know something she didn't? Or did she just have a hunch?

The elderly minister with a distinctive limp walked in and took his seat behind the desk. First he greeted all thirty-eight members of the Croft clan gathered in the large office, and then began the formalities.

Then he dug out a pile of documents.

Lara swallowed. This would be it. Her ultimate humiliation in front of this family. Luckily it would be the last one.

"Now that we have assured that all who are named in this will have a representative present we can begin."

He began reading the will.

Lara decided she had a headache again. Nothing else could describe the feeling of crushing pressure on her forehead.

First came the directions for the funeral arrangements. Then some lists on how to divide the funds. Lara was not suprised at the fact that she was not named in the list of those benefiting straight from the will.

Then came the dealing of his Father's property, including Lara's childhood home in Surrey, which went to her Father's two elderly sisters.

Lara began to wonder why she had been summoned as the will began to approach its end. She was lost in thought, certain that her presence was a mistake, when she finally heard her name being called.

"As an addition to this will we have a letter dating to August 1998, addressed to Lady Lara Croft."

Lara sat up, alert. An additional letter? This did not sound good. Lara could hear indignant muttering from behind her back. Her relatives probably thought she wasn't worth even this small bit of attention.

Lara just wish they would keep quiet so that the notary could read the letter.

She nodded at the man, a lump forming in her throat.

Paper rattled as he cut open the simple white envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. "To my beloved daughter Lara Elizabeth Croft. My greatest regret was that I could not keep you, could not get to know you on your own terms. Instead I was forced to contend to follow your life through books and newspaper articles. I did not understand your choices then but I do now. You have my forgiveness and I sincerely, even in death, wish that I have yours. I do not think you would accept anything from me, so I have decided to donate your heritance to the British Museum, where it will be used in a way I should like to think you would approve of. Signed by Lord Henshingly Croft on the fourteenth of February 1998."

Fourteenth of February. Her birthday.

The room spun. Lara had to close her eyes again.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I am not making any money with this. I do not own Tomb Raider, Lara Croft or her relatives. Only to be archived at Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power and at All other sites email me first at siirma6surfeu.fi to gain permission. Unauthorized archival and/or distribution will be considered a breach of copyright and I will take all measures possible to persecute the culprit. 

An hour later all practical matters had been sorted. The relatives left – the quicker the smaller the inheritance they'd gotten. Gillian had gotten a small sum which would not last long, but Lara doubted that she cared much.

They left the offices and decided to walk back to the church where Lara had parked her car. They paused on a bridge across the Thames when Gillian had to fish out a pebble from her shoe.

Lara had walked silently the whole way, but now she turned to her Aunt. "That was a suprise. I'd never have thought." She was feeling as though she'd ridden a roller coaster. Suddenly she felt a lot more calmer, clearer.

Gillian shook her head. "I would, judging by how he always asked about you."

Lara swallowed. "By the way, I've got something on that rose of yours."

Gillian blinked. "Really? So soon?"

Lara smiled mysteriously. "I had some help."

Gillian checked her watch. "I have to catch the train in a few minutes, but are you available later today if I call you, unless you're too tired?"

"Actually, I'd love to come to Cornwall."

"You solved the riddle, didn't you? The ladies will be thrilled! Do you mind if they ask a few questions?"

Suddenly Lara hugged her Aunt. "I'll come give a lecture. Now let us go and get my car, I'll give you a ride to Paddington."

Gillian looked at her, puzzled. "Aren't you anxious to get home?"

Lara shook her head. "I've got some things to finish before I head back home. Say, do you happen to know any good florists in the Bayswater area?"

Two hours later Lara buttoned her blazer tight, locked her car and walked through the gates of Highgate Cemetary. The epitome of all old cemetaries with ivy growing everywhere, it was as though materialized straight from a romantic era gothic novel.

New plots had not been opened in the West side for decades, but old family plots like the one belonging to her family were still very much in use. Tourists could enter the West side only with a guided tour, but family members and relatives of the deceased were always allowed to visit on their own.

Lara walked the familiar path to the heart of the overgrown cemetary, clutching a plastic-warpped flower arrangement. She had not been to Highgate since last visiting her Mother's grave at the age of nineteen.

The cemetary was silent, only a few birds singing in the thick bushes.

Lara found the right stone with ease. The ground beneath it did not grow any grass, as the ground had been open just a few hours ago. Now the casket of her Father lay somewhere below the dirt.

The stone had been cleaned and polished. The grave already embraced seventeen relatives, the oldest one having died in the eighteenth century.

Lara recalled Hussain's words. 'Not a wife and children, but _family_.' Spouse and children would become part of one's family, but parents were the members that were the core of the word 'family'.

Lara took off her wide-brimmed hat and hung it on a tree branch. She pulled open her hair and sat down onto a tiny, overgrown tombstone nearby.

She unwrapped the flowers. The florist had made a perfect job.

A hundred white roses were tied together with ivy, and surrounded by violet lilies. Lara placed the flowers down onto the freshly covered grave and traced her fingers along the engraved letters in the rock forming the name 'Croft'.

"Father," she whispered, half expecting herself to sound ridiculous, but she didn't.

"Father – I have returned." She'd returned too late, it seemed, but Lara did not feel like she had misssed her opportunity. If he did not hear her, at least she heard herself. That was the difference – she was there, and he was gone.

It felt as thought everything had suddenly fallen into perspective. She could finally see how many of the torturing feelings regarding her Father had only been inside her head and not real. She could finally see him as a person, not some malevolent force who only thrived when she suffered.

The monster she had created of him had suddenly vanished.

On the other hand, she did not feel overtly loving either. Just indifferent, like a period in her life had ended and a new one begun.

In Lara's mind the past few weeks – Jordania, Hussain, the funeral - all combined into one blur which was slowly losing its schock value and turning into a melange of distant memories. Turning into one liberating phrase.

_I'm free._

And now my charms are all o'erthrown

And what strenght I have's mine own

Which is most faint: now t'is true

I must be here released by you

William Shakespeare

It's time for the thankyous again. There is really one person to whom I owe my infinite gratitude and eternal servitude – this story would not be what it is without him. Tim Radley, friend and fellow author, thank you so much once again.

Another thank-you goes to the ladies at our local library who greatly assisted me in my painstaking research no matter what the subject.

And last but not least, many of the deeper undercurrents of this story would not exist without spiritual guidance from someone. MN, the _rosa mystica_ truly grows in your house and your heart.

There are many I should name here. You know who you are, you are never forgotten.

Thank you for reading. Comments would, as always, be greatly appreciated.

My address is siirma6surfeu.fi

Please note that not all the historical and archaeological facts stated here are factual – some things were twisted and added for a dramatic effect. For those interested in finding out more about the symbolism, geography and archaeology discussed in this story, here are some picks from the reference library I used while writing this story:

Hans Biedermann: Knaurs Lexikon Der Symbole

Ivan Mannheim & Dave Winter: Jordan, Syria & Lebanon Handbook

Lonely Planet Travel Survival Kit: Jordan & Syria

Kay Showker: Jordan & The Holy Land – A Practical and Historical Guide

Rosalyn Maqsood: Petra – A Travellers Guide

In addition to these I read several books on the subjects of history of Christianity and Christian symbolism.


End file.
